


The Big Snag

by shamelessmash



Series: Endless Wonder [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Warehouse 13
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of a Case, Bickering, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Injury, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, accidently saves the day, black and white detective movie, but john saves the day, elephant - Freeform, fic series, its complicated, missing person turned into a murder mystery, sent to the past, sucked into a novel, sword fight, that fucking GPS, warehouse catastrophe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamelessmash/pseuds/shamelessmash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 3 : The Big Snag</p><p>Picking up where we left off in Episode 2, the agent’s trip is delayed by an artifact emergency that threatens to blow up the entire Warehouse. In their attempt to neutralize it, our heroes are acidentaly sent into the universe of a crime novel by John’s favorite author.</p><p>Did I just write two fics just to set up an episode where Sherlock and John are sent to 'the past' to chase after an elephant?</p><p>Why yes, yes I did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unusual Artifact Disturbance

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: If you have not read the previous episodes of the Endless Wonder series this will not make sense.
> 
> This one is action packed, it was a lot of fun to write (though painful at some moments) But I must warn you, we’re slowly getting to the big storyline here, which means yall are gonna start hating me soon because the cliff hangers will get more and more intense.
> 
> Disclaimer: Besides the standard “I own nothing!”, please note that the, uh, “case” part of this story (trying not to spoil here) is based on a Warehouse 13 episode called The Big Snag (hence the fic title). Since the entire episode is them chasing after an elephant, you see why I felt so compelled to do it. I should mention the Warehouse Catastrophe has nothing to do with that episode, although those happen rather often in the series, so it felt natural to integrate one into the story. 
> 
> As usual, thank you to my fabulous betas, [not-john-watson](http://not-john-watson.tumblr.com/) , [best-url-of-all-time](http://best-url-of-all-time.tumblr.com/) , [neptune-centari](http://neptune-centari.tumblr.com/) , go follow them on tumblr, they are awesome!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thank you for kudos and/or comments :)

**Episode 3 : The Big Snag**

“John!”

He jerked awake and cursed. “You have got to be kidding me.” John moaned before covering his head with his pillow.

What was it with this man and waking him up by screaming?

With a sigh, John turned onto his back. Better to get woken up by the madman than to find an empty flat without a note. At least this morning John didn’t reach for his Tesla. That was an improvement, wasn’t it?

Things had gone so well last night, why ruin it this morning? John should have known it had been too good to be true.

The food had been lovely, all specially prepared by the owner who had been much happier to see Sherlock than John would have expected. Apparently it had been a long time since he had seen him, and he had offered them anything off the wine list, his treat.

Not only did they have a nice evening for the first time since their first case, but they had laughed. Not the whole time, but still. They had actually laughed together. Not because they were high on adrenaline but because they were enjoying each other’s company. John still wasn’t sure what exactly had triggered it, but they seemed to have finally arrived at some sort of middle ground.

But the most memorable thing from last night was Sherlock’s smile. John had already seen most of the fake ones he used with civilians; those expressions never reached his eyes and made him seem odd rather than sympathetic. But last night had been filled with small ones that actually started in his eyes and slowly spread throughout the rest of his face. His lips barely moved, giving him an overall look of shyness, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to enjoy himself. John knew those shy smiles were stirring up things he’d been pushing back and yet couldn’t stop himself from trying to make Sherlock smile some more.

_Sherlock had just refilled their wine glasses for the second time and was quietly deducing the couple by the kitchen doors, which were apparently on their first date. John took in the deep rumble of his partner’s voice, ignoring the tingle running down his spine as he listened to how she had bought a new dress for the occasion, which she was most likely going to regret when she found out her date was already in a relationship. With a chuckle, John leaned back in his chair, secretly amazed about his partner who was laughing as well._

_“You should laugh more often.” John winced. That hadn’t come out right. “There’ve been a few interesting studies about laughter, you know, uhm, benefits.” John continued uncomfortably, failing not to ramble. “It reduces stress levels and triggers the release of endorphins. And with the job we have, I mean, we should- we should laugh more often, right?” John took a long sip of his wine and ignored the blush creeping up his neck._

_Sherlock waited until John’s eyes met his. “There’s more than one way to trigger the release of endorphin.” For a brief moment something sparked in Sherlock’s eyes._

_John froze. Had Sherlock just... flirted with him?_

 

 “John!”

The urgency of Sherlock’s tone snapped the former soldier out of his thoughts. “What?” John shot back as he sat up.

“I just got an alert from the Warehouse, we have to go. Now!”

“Shit.”

Not good.

Cursing at the cold floor, John stood and dressed quickly. Still pulling on his oatmeal coloured jumper, he hurried down the stairs. He was greeted by an impatient looking Sherlock who shoved his coat into his arms.

“Unusual artifact disturbance. Come on.” Sherlock told him quickly before he made his way down the second flight of stairs to a waiting cab.

Definitely not good.

As he followed Sherlock, John’s eye caught the white arch that had appeared over their fireplace. He noticed it when they came home last night, and Sherlock had offered little explanation as to why the flat had suddenly started changing after all this time, and why it would choose to add a bulky white arch of all things.

Once the cab had left Baker Street, John looked across the seat. Sherlock was scanning his phone and his right leg kept fidgeting. There was no point in trying to get his partner to explain how bad the situation was, John could tell.

Maybe it wasn’t as bad as Sherlock thought, John reasoned. Maybe it would be like a routine disturbance, just harder to deal with because they weren’t already at the Warehouse. The more time a disturbance spends without supervision, the worst it will be.

John willed himself to stay positive and failed miserably. Why hadn’t the security system kicked in? It had been put to the test more than once, notwithstanding the purple shower they had gotten only days before. And anyway, what were really missing from those stations were basic medical kits.

John remembered when Mycroft had made them do the maintenance on all the individual security stations. They were scattered along the layout of the Warehouse; a bucket of neutralizer on wheels, a neutralizer hose, axe, a big emergency button that activated the neutralizer sprinklers and, of course, a smaller version of the Warehouse computer. Sherlock had lectured about artifact security, all the while making passive aggressive comments and successfully irritating the new agent. John had stayed calm, even when Sherlock had used his encounter with Beethoven’s clock as an example of what not to do. His control had paid off; when they had finished their last station for the day, the taller man had dusted himself off and told John to put everything away. Without a word, John had grabbed one bag and had stretched his arm out to hand it to Sherlock, who had taken a step back, knocked over the bucket of goo and had successfully slipped and knocked himself out as he had hit his head on the floor.

Sherlock had woken up with his head on John’s lap. The agent had shown the most curious look on his face, as if he had been surprised that John had taken care of him even though he had acted like a prat all day.

John eyed Sherlock across the cab’s back seat; a lot had changed since then. Well, he was still a prat most of the time, but it didn’t bother John as much anymore. Quite honestly, it was almost endearing. Now however, as he watched Sherlock hunched over his phone with a concerned look on his face, John was steadily growing worried. Even with all the security, back up security, maintenance, checkups, all those precautions, and Sherlock had still gotten an alert.

No. This was not good at all.

The closer they got to the Warehouse, the more John became aware that his apprehension had nothing to do with his overactive imagination. Somehow, he could feel that something was wrong and they couldn’t know how bad it was until they got there, making the cab ride seem insufferably long.

They finally rounded the last corner and drove up to the entrance of the Diogenes Club. The senior agent threw money at the driver and opened his door before they had even come to a full stop. Pushing back the feeling of impending doom, John jogged to catch up.

The elevator doors opened as soon as Sherlock pressed the button. Inside the elevator, beeping could be heard and it was getting louder the lower they went.

John cleared his throat and unconsciously stood at the ready. “So, uh, how bad is it exactly?”

Sherlock eyed him sideways. “Really not good.”

“Right.”

The doors opened and now the beeping was deafening as it reverberated against the metal walls. The flashing red lights leading the way towards the reinforced steel door of the office completed the effect of impending doom.

They stepped into the office and the first thing John saw was the Warehouse computer that seemed to be having a seizure. The first thing Sherlock noticed was the empty experiment table. A large blue flash of light coming from the Warehouse itself simultaneously caught their attention, making them walk to the windows.

John blinked a few times in an attempt to convince himself that whatever the hell he was looking at was really there. He didn’t know how to describe what he was witnessing other than a mean looking thunderstorm without the rain.

Above the high rows of artifacts, about halfway between the windmill and a two story house, was a dark cloud that sparked the same shade of blue as tangential energy. 

A spark turned into a lightning bolt, destroying whatever was in its path.

John’s jaw dropped as he watched a dark cloud of smoke rise. Somehow, _this_ was the moment when it dawned on him that they were the only qualified people in the world to fix this. Another bolt hit and John felt the ground shake.  

Fuck.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

John frowned at his partner’s offhand tone, as if they were watching a sunset. “What am I looking at?”

Sherlock paused before answering. “Remember when you got mad enough that you started an artifact chain reaction that activated the emergency system?”

“Yeah.”

“This is what happens without the emergency system.” Sherlock moved quickly to the computer.

“Really not good.” John mumbled to himself until he noticed Sherlock wasn’t beside him anymore. He turned to face his partner, a bit at a loss. “What caused this? Why didn’t the system work?”

Sherlock didn’t stop working, his fingers typed rapidly, his head moved from one monitor to the next as he analysed the gravity of the situation. “Could be a number of things, we won’t know for sure until we go down there, but my best bet is on the GPS.”

John’s expression turned from confusion to surprise, rapidly followed by concern when he saw at the empty table.

“Oh no, it got bored.” He said without thinking.

“What?”

John’s eyes widened as he realised what had just come out of his mouth. Thankful he was facing away from his partner, he tried to find a way to get the focus back to the emergency.

What was he supposed to say? The truth? _I can feel artifacts and that’s how I know the GPS got bored once we left it alone unsupervised and started teleporting around the Warehouse, which turned into a catastrophe threatening to destroy the world. So another day at the office, wouldn’t you say?_

Instead, John squared his shoulders and turned to the screens. “I don’t understand, why didn’t the emergency system prevent this?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He knew John was an awful liar. His best bet was evasion, and even then he had telltale signs. John was hiding something and it wouldn’t take Sherlock much questioning to figure it out, but they had more important things to deal with at the moment. “Not at first, or I would have received a notification earlier. It’s probably the processing center.”

“The what?”

“The neutraliser processing center. It’s-” Sherlock was about to say ‘it’s in the manual’ and revised his answer. “It’s where we manufacture and fuel the Warehouse emergency system. The gears are probably jammed, nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Ah ha! Found you.” Sherlock exclaimed as the computer zoomed in on a location in the Warehouse. He stood and went to rummage through the stacked boxes along the wall, quickly scanning the labels before taking out a large one.

John looked from the computer to the windows overlooking the... he wasn’t sure what to call it. The artifact storm? “So how do we fix it?”

“That depends.” Sherlock carried the box to the empty table.

“On?”

With a quick look at his partner, Sherlock opened the lid and took out a dark green Elephant about the size of a baseball glove with silver trimmings on its head, back and legs, and a large steel backpack with leather straps that reminded John of the prop from the movie Rocket Man. “Turn around.”

John would have normally insisted on explanations before putting on a strange backpack, but under the circumstances, he said nothing and shrugged off his coat. Sherlock held the pack up as John slid the shoulder straps on, trying not to jump as he felt Sherlock’s hands slide around his waist to buckle the belt. He then spun John around to tie the straps across his chest, then took out a pocket book sized steel plate from the box and placed it over his sternum. That was when John noticed that it had a sort of L angle at the bottom, like a book stand. He was about to ask what it was when Sherlock plugged four cables from the backpack to the front plate; two over his shoulders and two around his waist. He then handed John purple gloves that seemed to appear out of nowhere and did a final check before he grabbed the elephant.

“Come on.” He told John before heading to the door leading into the Warehouse.

John followed him down the metal stairs. “So what’s the plan?”

“Stop the Warehouse from destroying the world.”

“Sherlock.” John knew they didn’t have time for the long explanation, but he needed to at least understand what the hell they were about to do.

The agent frowned as he looked over his shoulder. He didn’t stop running but explained. “The jade elephant has the ability to absorb and project electrical energy. We’re going use it to absorb the excess tangential energy the artifacts are generating and discharge it onto the metal plate to store it into the battery you’re wearing.  Hopefully, we can stop it from spreading, repair the neutralizing system before the dark vault’s backup system fails and get rid of that bloody GPS. This way.”

Sherlock disappeared out of John’s sight as he made a sharp left. As soon as he rounded the corner himself, John felt like he was hitting an invisible wall. He willed his body to keep moving even though he wanted to crumble to the floor as he suddenly felt his insides twist; his head throbbed in pain, as if it had been hit by a frying pan. He felt anger, pain, sadness, betrayal, joy, love, jealousy and lust all at once. He wanted to jump of joy, run around screaming and drop to the floor in tears simultaneously.

“Hurry up, John!”

How he continued to run, continued to follow that voice was beyond him, but John kept pushing, even though he felt it all getting louder and harder and heavier.

John, a few seconds behind, watched as his partner turned left again at the end of the row, just as a blinding flash of blue light lit the opposing shelves.

Time seemed to slow down as John watched his partner travel through the air and drop heavily on the floor.

“Sherlock!”

Whatever was affecting John disappeared as he watched Sherlock’s body impact the concrete floor. Without a second thought, he ran to Sherlock and grabbed his shoulders to slide him to safety.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” He asked as his fingers slid across the pale throat, searching for a pulse.

John felt the moan beneath his fingers before he heard it.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock grumbled before he hissed at the blinding pain on the back of his head. He cursed himself. It was never good to get hit early in a situation like this.

“Right.” John was unconvinced. “How bad is it?”

“Nothing to be concerned about.” Sherlock tried to sit up without wincing noticeably.

Shaking his head, John checked around the corner.

He had seen sparks before; they ranged from a static shock along a shelf to blue electrical charges the size of dodge balls flying around freely. They sometimes caused a bit of trouble but nothing that ever seemed to worry Sherlock.

But this was out of hand. He could see the sparks emitting from each artifact, feeding off each other and creating stronger electrical arcs that had somehow created a sphere the size of a car. It was so strong they couldn’t even approach it, not to mention the loose balls of electricity orbiting around the sphere. They were hitting shelves every so often, activating other artifacts, making the sphere grow.

Not good. Definitely not good.

When he felt good enough, Sherlock stood and grabbed the elephant. “Come on, John.”

He looked around the corner and waited a moment before stepping out and aiming the elephant at two balls of electricity floating towards them. Some sort of screaming and popping was heard as the Jade Elephant absorbed them both. Sherlock quickly retreated and slammed the artifact against the steel plate on John’s chest. He had no words for the sensation of that kind of power being transferred into the battery on his back and didn’t have time to dwell on it. Sherlock was already heading out and absorbing three more.

“Sherlock, shouldn’t we go fix the neutralising system first?”

“It’s the GPS. If we can get it to teleport somewhere out of here, it will weaken the electrical field enough to give the neutraliser a chance to work.”

“Wait, you’re saying the purple stuff doesn’t always work?”

A large electrical arc erupted from the surface and headed directly towards them. John barely had time to wonder if the elephant could take such a charge before it hit the artifact Sherlock was holding out with both hands. With a flash of light, it absorbed the charge, leaving only a glowing and unstable Jade sculpture in the agent’s hands.

“John, quickly!”

The former soldier eyed the glowing elephant worriedly as Sherlock approached him and slammed the artifact onto the steel plate. If John had felt the effects previously, this was like a wave of electricity crashing around him.

“Sherlock-” He wanted to warn him, tell him something was off, that it was probably too much, but he never got the chance.

An electrical arc spread from the Jade Elephant to the shelves on their left, making the top one break off its hinges. John grabbed Sherlock’s arm to move them out of the way, nearly missing a fluffy teddy bear with a burned off arm heading directly towards them.

A second arc emerged, narrower but with a longer span, hitting the row across from them. The shelving was left intact, it was the stacked boxes that took most of the hit, making them tumble over and spill out their contents, which were, oddly, blank pages; hundreds and hundreds of blank pages, slowly raining onto the Warehouse agents.

“Oh, this can’t be good.” Sherlock said softly as he looked up.

White. Everything was white for a moment. White was all they could see. Without giving it a second thought, John grabbed a page. Blinking, his vision restored slowly as the rain of paper ceased.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, John was dumbstruck.

They weren’t in the Warehouse anymore. They were standing in an office, only it wasn’t their office.

But that wasn’t the weirdest thing.

_It was in black and white._

John looked at his hands. _He_ was in black and white.

He turned to look at his partner and his eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

Sherlock was still wearing a suit, but it was a different style from his usual attire. Like something his father would have worn when he was in his twenties. His hair was sleeked back and shiny, showing off his cheekbones.

_In black and white._

Somehow, seeing Sherlock in shades of grey made him look even more mysterious and dangerous, causing John’s throat to only function with difficulty. His skin literally looked like porcelain, contrasting with his black hair and giving his pale eyes an eerie yet mesmerizing effect.

“You’re seeing it too so it’s not my head injury...” Sherlock muttered, his eyes zooming around. “Well, it could have been worse.”

“We were in the Warehouse trying to stop it from imploding and destroying the world and now we’re in fucking _black and white and all you have to say is it could have been worse_?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer and walked to a window, opening it and peering out before quickly closing it and turning to John.

“I’m a private detective in Chicago in the 1940’s.”

Sherlock watched as John’s face went from despair to amazement to confusion.

“We time travelled?” He finally managed to ask.

“Of course not. If we had time travelled we wouldn’t be in black and white.”

“Then what?”

“We’re in a novel.” Sherlock simply stated.

“A novel?” John repeated dully. Well, that would explain the raining pages, he thought. “So we somehow got sucked into a novel. How do you know the story is set in 1940s Chicago?”

“Our clothing, hair styles and the conveniently placed Chicago sign across the street.” Sherlock explained with a smirk.

John pursed his lips and fought the urge to smirk back. The gleam in his partner’s eyes was irritably distracting. It didn’t usually have this much effect on him, but honestly, with this whole style change and black and white effect, was absolutely captivating. Just watching him pace was making John’s mind go blank.

He cleared his throat and looked up at his partner. “What about the detective part?”

Sherlock pointed to the office door where the words ‘Private Detective’ could be read backwards in the frosted glass.

John shook his head. How had he not seen it? He didn’t know how to react anymore. The former soldier felt all over the place and it was making him a bit lightheaded. He took a step back and sat on the dark desk, his hands grasping the edge, not noticing the sound of crumpling paper. 

“What’s that?” Sherlock stepped closer and took the page from his hand to inspect it. It was from a typewriter, but clearly not from the 1940s. _Kiss me, forever. By Anthony Bishop,_ he read. There was a handwritten note underlining it that said ‘ _is this a good title_?’

“No, it’s atrocious.” Sherlock mumbled as he handed it back to John and walked to the other side of the desk to look through the drawers.

John scanned the page. “Oh, Jesus.”

“I know, it’s so _distasteful_.”

“This... this has to be his unfinished manuscript.”

John couldn’t believe it. He held the paper with both hands and felt a rush of innocent joy as he remembered all those nights reading under his covers with a flashlight.

Sherlock, not having noticed John’s growing smile, continued his search. “Thank God it was never published.”

“No, Sherlock, this- this manuscript, its Anthony Bishop’s last manuscript.”

“Is he the author of those horrible crime novels you keep reading?”

“Exactly!”

“Oh God no.”

John didn’t care about his partner’s reaction. He couldn’t believe it, he was not only holding the title page, he was actually in the novel, he was going to get a chance to live the story that the author had never...

John’s eyes widened, as he remembered. “Sherlock... the author, he went insane from writer’s block while writing this.”

“That would explain why most of the pages were blank.”

“Then he killed himself.”

“Thus turning it into an artifact.” Sherlock completed as if it were the dullest thing in the world. “God, these back stories are all one and the same.”

John looked at the title page with a mix of joy and sorrow. This author had brought him so much happiness as a young teenager, delving into the dark universe, experiencing danger and mystery with the main character. John had never wanted to become a detective himself, but he couldn’t deny that these stories had been where he had started to develop his taste for danger, for the thrill of the chase. Knowing that this book had driven the author to his death...

Clearly, this story was different. Not for the obvious reason that it’s blank pages had killed the author, but because John could feel that it wasn’t like the other published ones. Maybe it was because it was unfinished. No, that wasn’t it. John couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t as simple as that. It had something to do with what had caused Bishop’s writers block.

He froze as he realised he was empathising again. That would explain why he felt all over the place. Shaking his head, John looked up at his partner, who was watching him intently, the light catching the side of his face, giving his pale grey features a sort of glow.

Ok, maybe empathy was _part_ of the explanation.

John cleared his throat. “So what do we do now?”

“What we always do: figure out how to neutralise the artifact.”

John’s mind provided him with the answer instantly. “We have to finish the story.” He looked around the room for any storyline indications. He knew the author’s style inside and out; maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

He turned his head and noticed Sherlock staring at him again, making him nervous. What did he say? Wasn’t it obvious it was the only way to get out?

Sherlock spoke slowly. “How do you figure?”

Maybe not _that_ obvious.

John cleared his throat and willed his brain to provide a logical explanation instead of the truth, which was nothing more than ‘ _I just know’_.

“Well, we haven’t got any neutraliser, Tesla’s, or any other of the tools you usually carry around, the Jade Elephant and battery pack seem to have disappeared, and we have no way to communicate with the Warehouse. So besides going along with the story, I don’t really see what else we could do.”

Sherlock nodded but kept staring. All of John’s statements were true, so why was he so nervous?

They heard a knock on the door; a feminine silhouette could be seen through the frosted glass.

“Finally! I understand it’s an unfinished novel, but things should really move along faster.” Sherlock commented and sat in the desk chair, as if he hadn’t been trying to bore a hole through John’s skull with his eyes a second ago.

John frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to meet the client.”

John crossed his arms. “How are you going to greet a client if you don’t let her in?”

Sherlock used his best fake smile. “Because that’s my assistant’s job.”

“Nope.”

“Sidekick?”

“Do I look like a fucking sidekick?”

“Fine - Partner. But you’re still getting the door.”

John pursed his lips to hide his amused smirk. He didn’t want to encourage the bastard. “You’re a dick, you know that?”

Sherlock smiled smugly and turned his back to the door.

The open door revealed a beautiful dark haired woman with curls falling perfectly around her pale grey face, her head crowned by a dark grey feathered hat, matching her satin dark grey dress, gloves and clutch bag.

“Well, hello there.” The words spilled out of John as he took in the sight of her. Sure, the black and white was making it weird, but at the sight of a woman as beautiful as that, it didn’t matter to John what color she was.

She smiled, eying him through her eyelashes. “I hear you’re the best gumshoe in town.”

The words were like music to John’s ears, what with the number of times he had read those same words, acting them out in front of his mirror as a young teenager. He answered without missing a beat.

“I like what you hear.” John watched as the woman eyed him from head to toe and flashed him a smile.

A loud cough came from the back of the room.

“I’m the detective, not him.” Sherlock said this offhandedly, all the while surprised by his urge to get up and slam the door in the woman’s face.

John smiled tightly. “Partner.” And ushered her in, making sure she didn’t see him give Sherlock his best _stop being an asshole_ look. The look faded away as he watched her walk up to the desk.

“Please, I didn't know where else to turn.” The woman asked with a trembling lip.

Sherlock eyed her a moment. “Not interested.”

Eyes wide with shock, she started protesting. “But I-”

Only the agent come detective cut her off. “You left home in the hopes of a career as a singer and ended up in a crummy night club, tangled with the wrong crowd and now you’re looking for a way out.” He enumerated quickly. “Not interested.”

Their guest was now frozen with stupor, her mouth slightly open until she frowned, looked from John to Sherlock and uttered. “How did you-?”

“Incredible.” John said with the same awed tone as the woman.

Sherlock’s eyes widened momentarily as he glimpsed at his partner.

“Only that’s not why I’m here.”

Both men turned to her, mildly surprised.

“Is that so Ms.?” Sherlock inquired.

“Abbott, Lilly Abbott. My husband-”

“Wrong.” Sherlock cut her off again, earning himself another surprised yet aggravated look from their visitor.

“My _friend_ ” She started again. “Has disappeared, and I think it has something to do with this.” She gracefully leaned across the desk and handed Sherlock a picture of two men in what looked like an archeological dig site, and one of them was holding the jade elephant.

“Hm.” Sherlock hid his surprise at seeing the artifact he was holding when they got sucked into the manuscript and handed the picture to John. “He was hired to find the artifact in this picture for your boss and you kept an eye on him in case he tried to run away with it, which he did, and now you can’t find him and can’t go to your boss empty handed. Still not interested.”

John’s eyes widened at his partner’s declaration, as did Ms. Abbott before she insisted. “He kept saying how he was afraid it could fall into the wrong hands.”

“The door is that way.”

“I’m sorry; could you give us a moment?” John intervened, grabbing Sherlock’s arm roughly and dragging him across the room before Ms. Abbott could react.

“What is it now?”

“We have to take her case.”

“No, we don’t.”

“We can’t leave the elephant here.”

“We don’t have to take her case to get the elephant.”

“Sherlock.” John’s tone was hushed but if didn’t stop it from being any less commanding.

“If I really were a detective I never would have taken this case. It’s a four at best.” Sherlock grumbled.

“A four?”

“Wouldn’t leave the flat for anything less than an eight.”

“Will you shut up? The Warehouse is about to implode and we’re stuck in a book with a dangerous artifact on the loose. So if this case is as boring as you think it is, than use that big old brain of yours and solve it quickly, so we can get out of here while there’s still somewhere to go back to.”

“So tedious.”

“Drama queen.” John turned back to their fictional client before Sherlock could retort. “Ms. Abbott, we’ll take the case.”

“Oh thank you, thank you so much.” She said as she stood, her hands worrying her clutch as she walked towards them. “What would I ever do without you?”

“Well technically you don’t exist.” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

John coughed and gave his partner a stern look before turning too Ms. Abbott. “What’s the name of your friend?”

“Carson. Doctor Oliver Carson, archeologist.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Yesterday, at his office. I tried calling him and went there this afternoon but he was gone and I don’t know where else to look.”

“Here, write down your contact information and the address of his office.” Sherlock ushered her out of the office as soon as she was done. “Now let us work.”

“Yes, of course. Goodbye.” She barely had time to say before the door was shut in her face.

John shook his head. There was no point in reprimanding him; they were in a book after all. When he thought about it, Sherlock’s general behavior was a good read. John was about to ask him for his theory but got distracted by the view. The man was peering out into the city. His silhouette was framed by the natural light shining into the office, outlining his graceful posture. All that was missing from this frame was some saxophone track and he really felt like he was in one of those old detective movies. Hell, they already were in black and white. John watched his partner gaze out into the city, his mind already working to figure out how to get them out of this mess and couldn’t help the gleeful feeling growing inside. He was becoming more and more excited about the situation and even though Sherlock would disapprove, John didn’t care; he was going to make the most of it.

“The Case of the Missing Jade Elephant.” The words stumbled out of his mouth.

Sherlock looked at his partner with a blank face. “Horrible.”

His partner’s reaction was predictable, and didn’t dampen John’s enthusiasm. “I don’t know, thought it had a nice ring to it.”

“It’s worse than Bishop’s title.” Sherlock sat on the window sill.

“Oh come on, his title wasn’t that bad.”

“Please don’t tell me this case will give you the urge to start writing your own detective stories.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” He paused, letting himself think about it a moment.

Sherlock grunted in disgust. “Do not get me involved.”

“Why would you be involved?”

“What else would you write about that’s would be worth reading?”

“I didn’t realise your ego had and ego.” John shot back and laughed at Sherlock’s reaction. It reminded him of Mycroft when his little brother acting like a child.

John let his partner huff in frustration and started looking around the office, taking the opportunity to finally explore a bit. But his mind kept drifting. Besides the fact his stories would annoy Sherlock, basing on their adventures wasn’t a bad idea. In fact, as he mentally went through their cases, ideas popped into his head of how he could adapt them just enough to hide the existence of The Warehouse. Then again, what would be the point if he couldn’t publish them?

Maybe. Someday.

“So, do you think it’s a kidnapping or did Carson disappear to save himself?”

Sherlock was pacing behind the desk. “Maybe a bit of both, if he is trying to protect the artifact.”

“Sounds like a good Warehouse agent candidate.” John commented and was surprised by his partner’s protests.

“He’s fictional!” Sherlock claimed as if the idea were preposterous. “How does that make any sense?”

“Just because he’s fictional doesn’t mean he can’t have a real personality. He’s still a real person in this universe.”

“What has gotten into you?”

“Nothing. I- never mind.” John’s eyes spotted an armoire. “Oh, of course, why didn’t I think of that?” He mumbled to himself, pleased with his discovery as he opened it.

“What?”

“We’re detectives, which means we’ve got guns.” John said as he turned to show the guns and holsters he held in his hands.

Sherlock took one and inspected it before strapping it on. “Well, I know what to do if I get too bored.”

John ignored him and tucked his weapon in the back of his trousers as he finished inspecting the armoire. “Oh, car keys.” He jiggled the keys before pocketing them. He looked up and watched Sherlock look himself over in the window’s reflection. As he combed his fingers through his hair, John remembered the head injury. “Let me take a look at your head and we can go.”

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock waved offhandedly before buttoning his suit jacket.

John looked at his partner sternly. “This isn’t a sprained wrist, it’s a head injury.”

“I feel perfectly fine.”

“Sherlock!”

The agent knew there was no point in arguing any further or he would end up manhandled into the desk chair. So he rolled his eyes and sat, back straight as an arrow.

John sighed in relief and moved the desk lamp closer. He gently moved Sherlock’s hair aside and looked for the bruises he had seen earlier but nothing was there. Maybe it was because of the grey color pallet? “Does this hurt?” John pressed the scalp.

“No.”

Hm. “How about here.”

“Nope.”

John straightened, baffled. “It... I think it’s gone.”

“I told you I was fine.” Sherlock repeated as he stood and got his coat.

“I don’t care what you say; I am looking at it again when we get out of here.” John threatened as he got his coat as well.

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer and led the way out of the office. They made their way outside of the building and found what Sherlock deduced was their car, a 1940s Plymouth.

“I’ll drive.” Sherlock announced.

“You’ll need the keys for that.” John said with a smirk as he slid his hand into his pocket and came out empty handed. He looked up and watched a smiling Sherlock toss the keys into the air and catch them before unlocking the driver door.

“Pick pocketed them while you were looking at my head. Told you I was fine.”

“Cock.”


	2. The Case of the Missing Jade Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took so long. Real life got in the way. Not only for me but for all my fabulous beta's, all at once.  
> This means that I am choosing to publish even though it hasn't gone through the established process and it will most likely be a lot easier to tell that english is not my first language, but I hope you'll still enjoy :D  
> Hopefully the team's schedules will be restored for episode 4.

They walked down the hall of an office building, the setting sun shinning bright across their dark gray trench coats and fedoras as they passed each blind covered window. John watched their shadows on the opposing wall as they crossed each section of vertical lines and smiled. He didn’t want to admit it to Sherlock, but he really was enjoying his. It was incredible really, getting the chance to live out one of Bishop’s stories. He could practically hear the words in his head.

_The dame said the last place she saw Carson was his office. She may have said more, but I was too busy staring at her gams. The only thing stopping them going on forever was the floor._

“Are you narrating?” Sherlock had stopped walking and was staring at the shorter man.

John’s eyes widened momentarily, followed by his legs stopping short. “You could hear that?”

“Gams? Really?”

“It’s the 1940s.” He defended, grateful that Sherlock probably couldn’t see him blush with his gray complexion.

Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

“Look, I was just... getting into character.”

“Just don’t do it when I’m around, this story is bad enough as it is.”

“It’s barely started, and Bishop Novels are great, full of mystery, treachery, stake outs, shoot offs-”

“You do realise those things will most likely happen and we will be involved one way or another.”

“You mean like every other day in our line of work?”

“Perhaps, but it doesn’t change the fact that the story is boring, predictable and a waste of our time.” Sherlock mumbled to himself and walked the last few strides to Carson’s office door.

John continued to defend his favorite books, even though he knew there was little chance Sherlock would let up. “Just because you can’t be bothered to relax and enjoy things once in a while doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for everyone else.”

“Sometimes I envy you, having a mind idle enough to enjoy such simple things.” Sherlock said as he crouched in front of the lock and took out two paperclips.

“What are you doing? You know, besides calling me an idiot in so many words.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“How about knocking first?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, straightened and crossed his arms and waited as John knocked heavily on the door.

To their surprise, a man approached, casting a shadow over the frosted glass. John was getting ready to explain their visit when something in the glass caught his eye. It wasn’t what was on the other side; it was a reflection of what was behind them.

Instinctively, John pushed Sherlock to the side and spun, swiftly evading the club aimed at his head before punching his assailant in the stomach. As the man bent over in pain, John used his momentum and propelled him forward into the wall on the right side of the door, effectively knocking him out.

Simultaneously, Sherlock had taken a step sideways from the force of John’s shove, making him evade the second assailant’s blow aimed at his own head. The senior agent grabbed his forearm and twisted it, making the man contort his shoulder in response. With a slight push down, the man moaned in pain and twisted his body in an attempt to lessen Sherlock’s grip, resulting in his head smashing into the wall, knocking him unconscious.

The agents come detectives faced the man that had opened the door.

John straightened his suit jacket. “Something tells me you aren’t Mr. Carson.”

With a panicked look, the man slammed the door and ran.

“Amateur.” Sherlock mumbled as they opened it and searched the office.

They found him crawling out of the window. In no time he was unarmed and tied to a chair.

“So, Mr...” John looked in their hostage’s wallet. “Lennox, mind telling us who sent you?”

“Eat dirt, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

“Then there’s no need for you to speak, is there?” Sherlock took the wallet from John’s hands and flipped through it quickly.

John took one glimpse at the goon’s dumbstruck face and bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “So, what’ve you got?”

“The usual: married, two kids, gambling problems.” The tall man enumerated as his fingers fiddled with the wallet’s contents.

John crossed his arms. “Bit boring.”

“How-?” The man said in disbelief.

“You mean dreadfully dull.”

“Who you callin’ dull?!”

Sherlock lobbed the wallet on the desk and looked at the tied man with disdain. “You take care of him; I’ll search the office for whatever evidence is left after those idiots ruined the place.”

John wanted to roll his eyes but kept a straight face. “Who sent you?” He repeated.

“I ain’t a rat!”

“Really John, this is what you consider literature? Variations on the theme of “I will not talk”? Are all Bishop’s characters this boring?”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Without a warning, John punched the man right in the nose, causing his head to snap back as a gush of blood dripped down his chin and neck.

“Ow!”

“That escalated quickly.” Sherlock commented over his shoulder.

“Look, this is clearly an expendable tertiary character once we’ve gotten the information we need to move the story along. To do that, we’re supposed to, uh, roughen him up a little.”

“Well, that explains your tendency to use violence as a first resort.”

John was about to argue but instead narrowed his eyes at his partner before turning to their hostage, using the velocity of his movement to wind up his left arm into an uppercut and punching him between the ninth and tenth rib. Lennox bent forward as much as he could with his bound hands and moaned in pain, his breath short.

“Who sent you?” John repeated calmly.

The man could barely speak. “I ain’t-”

A swift punch in the stomach cut short his answer.

“You said that already. Now, if I punch you in the liver one more time, it will not only be excruciatingly painful, but it will affect the blood circulation in your body, causing you to pass out. That’s why you’re feeling a bit breathless right now. Well, that and the punch aimed at your diaphragm. So let’s try this one last time: who sent you?”

Slowly, the man straightened, eyeing John as if to measure the threat. He looked over to Sherlock who seemed as shocked as him, only not quite for the same reasons.

“Barnabas.” Lennox said in a defeated tone.

“Where can we find him?”

“The Indigo Club.”

“Most likely the same place as our client.”

“Now let me go.” Lennox pleaded.

John padded the man on his shoulder. He figured they could use him to get into the club to meet Barnabas without too much trouble. “Don’t worry; we’ll let you go. We’re even giving you a ride back.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” John smiled before punching him on the temple, effectively knocking him out.

It took John a moment to realise his partner was staring. He was making sure the man was still breathing and got distracted by the different stages of bruising in gray tones. When he did notice, he dropped his hands to either side of him. “What?”

“You constantly insist on keeping casualties at a minimum yet since we’ve been here, you seem to have no remorse in beating up every threat we meet.”

“If you bothered to read fiction once in a while between one of your textbooks you’d know I’m just playing the part. And I thought you’d appreciate my efficiency.” John concluded with a smirk.

Sherlock frowned. “As in?”

“It was only a matter of time until you got sick of hearing Lennox complain, to which you would insist I gag him. So I’ve spared us the pain of it all by knocking him out. We can wake him up when we’re done so he can take us to the Indigo Club.”

Obviously, John was right. Not only was he spot on, but Sherlock hadn’t even thought of using Lennox to get into the club. He would have thought about it eventually, but he wasn’t expecting to get beaten to the punch. It must have been a popular technique in Bishops stories then, Sherlock rationalised, just like using violence to get information.

“Remind me not to piss you off while we’re here.” Sherlock mumbled and went back to looking for clues.

The shorter man didn’t even try to hide his pleased expression as he started searching the room as well.

Sherlock sat behind the desk, feeling up the underside, opening drawers. John looked through the papers scattered on top, noticing a matchbox under a pile. It was black with white writing, the Kristieanne Hotel, complete with a cartoon drawing of a woman smiling.

“Kristieanne.” He muttered. He knew he had heard that name before.

“Hm?”

Of course! “That’s the name of his mother.”

Sherlock came closer and looked at the matchbook. “Carson owns a Hotel?”

“No, Bishop, I mean, he doesn’t own a hotel, but his mother was named Kristieanne.”

Sherlock grabbed the matchbox and examined it. “Congratulations John, your knowledge of low end authors is actually useful. Let’s pay a visit to Barnabas and then we’ll go.”

After waking up Lennox with a cold glass of water to the face, the three of them left for the club, stepping over the unconscious bodies in the corridor without giving them a second thought. Lennox got shoved in the back of their car and waited while they argued over who would drive. Sherlock won, making the drive a bit tense and silent except for the few turn indications their hostage was giving.

The mood changed once they parked in front of the Indigo club. The agents nodded to each other and got out, with John opening the door for Lennox. With a grim looking Lennox leading the way, they walked up to the main entrance, greeted by a confused looking the doorman. The agents made brief eye contact and quickly diverted their gaze as they both stifled a smile. In spite of their earlier argument, it wouldn’t take much for them to burst out laughing.

The polished metal plated door led them into the foyer where a speechless hostess was blinking at the sight of what had just walked into the door. With a heavy sigh, Lennox smoothed his coat and spoke tightly to her.

“Take us to Mr. Barnabas.”

Her mouth opened a few times as she looked from Lennox to the two smiling agents before she managed to utter a sound. “But sir-”

“Now!” He cleared his throat, seemingly apologetic for his outburst.

Her mouth snapped shut and with a last look at the agents she turned and walked through the drape covered archway into the main room. Even thought it was empty and devoid of color, the room still felt warm and welcoming. It was large with pale gray walls and white drapes on the windows and archways separating the areas with a few potted shrubberies scattered in key places. There was a stage big enough to fit a five person orchestra, with a polished hardwood dance floor in front of it, surrounded by small tables with candles. The bar was on the opposite side of the room; high glass shelves lined with bottles of alcohol that shined in the backlight. As they walked past the bar, the barman gave them the stink eye as he rubbed the glass in his hands.

The left side wall was lined with half circle booths of what seemed like leather, one of which was filled with who they were looking for. John was blatantly reminded they were in black and white as he was blinded by a fat man in a white suit and hat, contrasting with the dark seats.

“Mr. Barnabas, sir.” The hostess said in an insure tone.

“Yes, my dear girl.” The man answered with a joyful voice, his attention currently occupied by the lovely woman by his side. As he turned, his smile faded away as his eyes fell upon the two strangers. “What is the meaning of this?” He barked at his staff.

Lennox tried to take a step away from the agents but was held back by John’s firm grip on his arm. “Mr. Bar-” The goon started to say before getting slapped on the back of the head by Sherlock.

“Guards!”

Four men came running at them, two from the entrance of the main room that were aiming for John, the other two barged out of the kitchen and headed towards Sherlock.

“Fat nose has a bum left knee; the other has an undiagnosed heart condition.” Sherlock whispered to John quickly.

Even though he was used to Sherlock’s deductive skills by now, it was still incredible how he could catch so much information with a glance. If John were to be honest with himself, with the black and white effect, the sight of the tall man giving him instructions on how to incapacitate the incoming threat was not only amazing, but a bit of a turn on. 

They pushed Lennox away, making him sprawl on the floor as they each turned towards their opponents, their backs brushing one another as they prepared for the onslaught.

The first assailant to hit the floor was the tallest who had tried to punch Sherlock and ended up going down face first, nearly missing Lennox who was attempting to crawl away from the brawl. The three other guards quickly followed suit, either unconscious or moaning in pain on the floor around the agents who had barely broken a sweat.

Barnabas’s eyes widened in fear as he looked up from his henchmen covered floor to the intruders and attempted to squeeze out of the booth. “How- how dare you walk into my club unannounced and threaten me-”

“You didn’t exactly give us a chance to do so.” Sherlock cut him off. “We hadn’t spoken a word when you called your guards on us, no matter how ineffective that was.”

Barnabas continued, his voice breathless as he struggled to stand. “Insult me in my respectable establishment-”

The words were cut short when John took a step forward, hard eyes freezing the man in place. “Sit.”

Silence filled the room as Barnabas’ eyes grew with fear and fell back heavily onto the seat.

Barnabas looked from John’s deadly stare to Sherlock who seemed oddly pleased given the circumstances. Defeated, the fat man straightened himself in his seat, smoothed out his suit and hair and attempted to smile. “I believe there's been a terrible misunderstanding.” He said in a tight voice as he signaled the hostess to come closer. “Come, let us sit, would you like anything to drink? Eat? Peggy here will take care of you, won’t you Peggy dear?”

She opened her mouth to speak but ended up nodding her head.

“Whiskey. Neat.” John ordered as he sat in the booth.

Sherlock refused the offer with a small shake of his head as he sat, his pale eyes taking in everything he could about the man sitting across from him. They sat in silence as they waited for Peggy to come back with John’s drink.

He watched the hostess walk up to the bar, his eyes catching with the barman’s. John didn’t know why but there was something about him, he couldn’t quite place what. Before he had the chance to figure it out, Peggy placed the tumbler in front of him and left quickly.

“So,” Barnabas started, clearing his throat. “Private detective, that’s quite an interesting profession.” Barnabas started with his joyous voice in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Sherlock was having none of it. “What do you know about the Jade Elephant?”

John smiled into his drink. He was use to Sherlock’s bit by now, but it didn’t make it any less entertaining.

“I- How-?” The fat man stuttered. “I have no idea what you’re-”

“Spare me your atrocious acting skills.” Sherlock’s deep voice was filled with disdain. “You hired Carson to find the Jade Elephant, put Lilly Abbott to keep an eye on him and he still disappeared. With your men’s skill level it’s obvious why you’ve been reduced to doing the questioning yourself.”

How the man could finish his tirades without being out of breath was yet another sign of his skills. Barnabas stared at Sherlock, his jaw loose, eyes wide with surprise.

“Incredible.” John whispered.

Sherlock frowned and looked down. “Do you realise you’re saying that out loud?” He asked John.

“Sorry.”

“No. No, it’s... fine.”

John cleared his throat, which seemed to snap Barnabas out of it. The man shook his head and readjusted himself in his seat.

“Now what I would like to know,” Sherlock continued. “Is how you came to know about the Elephant.”

Barnabas answered with a nervous chuckle. “This club is, uh, merely a hobby. I am, by vocation, shall we say, a procurer of rare and valuable artifacts.”

“Really?” Sherlock answered in a bored tone. “So are we.”

“Excellent. Kindred spirits.” Barnabas exclaimed, his joyful tone an attempt to make up for trying to kidnap them. “You’re correct; I hired Mr. Carson to find the elephant. But alas, once he found it he decided to retain ownership.”

“Why do you think that is?” John insisted.

Barnabas smiled at him. “What motivates any man? Greed.”

Sherlock sat back and added. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you Mr. Barnabas?”

“I paid him.” The club owner argued calmly. “That means I am the owner of the Jade Elephant and the wronged party in this sordid tale.”

“Yes, but what do you plan to do with it?”

“Add it to my collection of course.”

“Wrong.”

“I- How-?”

“Revenge is so predictable, wouldn’t you say John?” Sherlock commented with a glint in his eye. “Frankly, I don’t care about your motives, but I will care if you attempt to interfere with an ongoing investigation again.”

“Then why not combine our forces? I assure you good sir, that no matter the price you were promised, I will match it.”

“Please, even though I am your best chance of finding the artifact-”

“We.” John cut in with a fierce whisper.

Sherlock turned his head slightly and frowned. “What?”

“ _We_ are your best chance.”

“Seriously?”

John didn’t need to speak, his answer was loud and clear as he clenched his jaw and stared at Sherlock.

With a roll of his eyes, he repeated. “Even though _we_ are your best chance at finding the Jade Elephant-”

Before Sherlock could finish, Barnabas cut in by handing them folded up bills. “Will this suffice?”

Sherlock was about to tell the man off for insulting him with an offer as petty as money when John grabbed the cash.

“It’ll do. For now.” He stuffed them inside his suit jacket as he slid out of the booth and stood.

Sherlock frowned briefly but followed. They nodded to Barnabas and left, ignoring the barman’s stares. John looked down the street as they stepped outside and smiled.

Sherlock put on his fedora as he spoke. “So we accepted to find an artifact that we don’t plan on giving back?”

“Yup.”

“You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?” He muttered under his breath.

John eyed him sideways. “Shut up.” But he couldn’t hold back his smile as he walked over to their car to head to the Kristieanne Hotel.

“We need to see the guest book.” Sherlock told the desk clerk as soon as they walked into the lobby.

The clerk scoffed. “I believe you mean you would like a room.”

Before Sherlock could utter a word, John put his hand on his arm and held his irritated stare. With a clenched jaw, Sherlock moved aside.  John gave him a small nod of thanks as he slid a ten dollar bill across the counter, fingers drumming on it teasingly in front of the desk clerk.

“You heard the man.”

After a quick look around, the clerk placed the book on the counter, turned it around to face John, grabbed the money and left as quickly as he could.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “You do realise you could have bribed him with five dollars?”

“Who cares, we’re in a book.” John was reading the open page when the book slid to his right, making him stare at the polished gray countertop.

Sherlock flipped through the pages, ignoring John’s irritated huff. He stopped when he saw an empty slot obviously having been erased. “Someone’s trying to hide their tracks. So obvious, how is any of this a mystery?”

John eyed him with mischief. “Alright, if it’s so obvious, where’s Carson?”

Sherlock scoffed. He didn’t know, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit that. “Carson hiding isn’t a mystery. The Jade Elephant: _that’s_ a mystery.”

“Just admit you don’t know.”

Sherlock stretched over the counter to grab a pencil. “Fine, you’re the genre expert, where do you think he is?”

“To early in the story to tell.” John answered as he diverted his eyes from his partner’s outstretched body.

“Hm.” Sherlock raised an unconvinced eyebrow.

This is ridiculous, John thought to himself. He knew Sherlock was clearly trying to keep face and there was no point in arguing really but for some reason he couldn’t let it go, didn’t want to let it go. “Once again, if you bothered to read fiction once in a while you’d know that we’ll discover where Carson is only when the author wants us to.” He straightened and faced his partner with a defiant look.

Pencil in hand, Sherlock held his stare. “For dramatic emphasis I presume?”

The low rumble of Sherlock’s voice made John realise how close they were standing. “Yeah.”

Even though John’s voice had been steady, Sherlock neither missed his pupils dilate, nor the slight hitch in his breathing. He frowned, surprised by his body’s reaction to John’s obvious attraction. Sherlock was even more disconcerted when he felt himself swaying forward when John nervously licked his lips, struggling with the urge to pursue his tongue with his own.

John struggled to keep his eyes from looking down to his partner’s lips, his neck, glowing in the light from the desk lamp. The black and white effect on his already porcelain skin was making him lean in, curious to see if the color could affect the taste.

The phone on the counter a few feet away rang loudly, making them both snap out of whatever was happening. John cleared his throat and turned away; Sherlock crouched over the guest book. Using the pencil, he slowly rubbed the side of the tip against the paper to reveal the outline of the indentation.

“Augustus Pitt Rivers, room 204.”

“That’s a noir name if I ever heard one.” John commented, grasping at the chance to change the mood.

“Augustus Rivers is a real archeologist. This is an alias.”

A faint screaming sound could be heard just before the lights of the lobby started flickering. They turned to one another with a knowing look.

“Does that remind you of anything?” John asked offhandedly. He wasn’t expecting to suddenly be the target of Sherlock’s scrutiny, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, except Sherlock doesn’t normally deduce with that look in his eye.

Sherlock smoothed his suit jacket without breaking eye contact, “I’d say there’s an Elephant in the room.” And winked.

John couldn’t help it; there was just something about Sherlock in this universe that was making him irresistible: his sleeked hair, the teasing smile tugging at his lips, the angle of his hat as he looked at John with a gleam in his eye. Without his usual coat, John could see the little swing of his hip as he spun around and ran towards the stairs. He wasn’t sure if his pulse jumped because of the thrill of the chase or the man he was hunting with.

There were a few people peeking out of their rooms as they ran down the corridor to 204. John shouted at them to get back in their rooms. As they arrived at the door, they could hear a crash. Sherlock tried to open it but it was locked.

“Move.” John ordered before kicking the door open.

A few bits of wood framing scattered the entrance carpet, unnoticed as they hurried into the room.

The first thing Sherlock saw was the open window with its white tulle drapes blowing in the wind.

The first thing John saw was the body on the floor.

Moving simultaneously, John checked his pulse as Sherlock headed to the window to see a man in a trench coat and hat heading down the alley.

Sherlock aimed his gun. “Carson!”

The man stopped, turned around and aimed the elephant, shooting electricity and nearly hitting the agent. Moving back to look out the window, all Sherlock could see was a dark figure disappearing in a foggy alley.

“Sherlock.”

The agent spun at John’s defeated tone.

“He’s dead.” John’s head was hanging low as he pulled his hands away from the man.

Sherlock scanned the body; even in shades of gray the tell tale signs of electrical burns were obvious. With the state of the man’s chest, he didn’t need to check his pulse to know he was dead. There was one interesting thing though.

“That’s Carson.”

“What?” John looked from the dead man to his partner, took the picture handed to him. “Then who was the man shooting at us?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s face glowed. “I don’t like not knowing, drives me insane sometimes working with artifacts, but this...” Sherlock turned to his partner with an excited look in his eye. “John, if Carson’s dead, than this story isn’t about a missing artifact anymore. It just turned into a murder mystery.” A smile spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with excitement and a hint of mischief.

John went from concerned to resolute with a shake of his head. “Sherlock, I’m going to ignore the fact that you look happy that someone’s been murdered and remind you that if we don’t catch whoever is behind this, we’re most likely stuck in this story forever.”

He was trying, he really was trying to sound like this was not ok and that the situation is serious, but Sherlock kept looking at him with that damn smile that shouldn’t be as sexy as it was and terribly distracting and John really shouldn’t be struggling not to flirt while there’s a dead body _right there._

“John, stop trying to pretend you aren’t enjoying this, I can tell even in black and white.”

“So are you.” Was all John could find to say, which was true even if it did sound like a childish retort.

And yet John couldn’t help the nagging feeling that Sherlock’s statement applied to two completely different conversations.

“Well, I always did love a good puzzle. Come along John, the game is on.”

“Where are we going exactly?”

“Following the story, John. If Carson is dead, we should tell his wife.”

“I’m driving.”

“Nope.”

The sun had set about an hour ago when they parked in front of Mrs. Carson’s residence. They walked up the stone path and knocked on the door.

“You should tell her.” Sherlock said as he moved aside to let John stand in front of the door.

“Why me?”

“You’ve had a chance to practise over the years, being as doctor and all.”

John gaped at him. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“Just because it wouldn’t be my first time doesn’t make it any easier.”

“You seem offended.”

“I’m more concerned that you don’t feel any sympathy for a woman who just lost her husband.”

“She’s fictional!”

“That’s not-” John didn’t have time to finish when the lock was heard and the door opened. A white haired woman with a dark gray dress greeted them.

“Can I help you?” She asked, seeming a bit concerned.

John cleared his throat in an attempt to compose himself. “Good evening, are you Mrs. Carson?”

The woman frowned but nodded. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Private Detectives. This is Sherlock Holmes and I am John Watson.” Turning back to the woman, John tried to sound as reassuring as he could. “Mrs. Carson, may we please come in and speak with you?”

“What is this about?”

“Your husband.” Sherlock said in a deep voice and Mrs. Carson’s eyes grew with concern.

“I’d say that would be best, yes.” She moved aside to let them in and made sure nobody had seen them before closing the door.

She brought them into the sitting room and offered them a drink. Sherlock silently refused and walked around the room, inspecting everything; John thanked her and asked for whiskey.

While they silently waited, John tried to get Sherlock’s attention which was not working since he was pointedly looking anywhere but at him. It didn’t make sense to John. If his partner rationalised everything in here as fictional, then why would he insist John be the bearer of bad news.

“So what did my husband do?” Mrs. Carson asked, facing away from the agents.

John looked up as he was snapped out of his train of thought. He looked at her a moment and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry we’ve bothered you so late, if it wasn’t important-” John cursed inwardly and glimpsed at his partner who at least seemed as uncomfortable as he was. “Mrs. Carson, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but-”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Her tone was so empty of emotion that even Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“Honestly, I never thought he’d turn up.” She handed John his drink.

John thanked her and held the glass but didn’t drink, still stunned by the woman’s reaction or lack thereof. He eyed Sherlock, assuming he was going to interrogate her but he somehow seemed more interested in the carpet at the moment. With his best trust-me-I’m-a-doctor face, John took a sip of whiskey and placed his glass on the table. “What do you mean?”

“I assumed I’d never see him again after he took all of our money and ran off with that curly haired bitch.” She explained, or rather spat out while she stared out the window.

John suddenly realised that the best way for Lilly to keep an eye on Carson would have been to seduce him. “When did he leave with her?”

“About a week ago, right after he came back from his last trip. He barely dropped his luggage; he was already picking them up to leave with her.”

John downed his drink before getting up. “Anything else, anything at all?”

“No, just find whoever killed him so I can thank them.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Right.” Well, can’t really blame her for being mad at him, he added to himself. “Call us if anything happens.”

“One last thing.” Sherlock’s deep voice cut in.

Mrs. Carson turned. “Yes?”

“Have you had any work done to the house in the last six months?” He asked as he looked around the room.

She tilted her head slightly, confused. “No, why?”

“No reason. Thank you for your time, we’ll see ourselves out.” Sherlock said before leaving the room, not bothering to check and see if John was following him.

“Work done on the house?” John asked as he caught up to Sherlock on the stone path.

“She killed Carson.”

John stopped walking. “What?”

Sherlock grabbed his arm and ushered him to the car. “Stop drawing attention to us. She’s probably watching from the window. We’re getting in the car, driving around for a while and coming back to keep an eye on her. It’s only a matter of time before she leaves the house with the artifact to go kill Lilly.”

John stood next to the passenger door as Sherlock made his way to the other side. “How the hell did you figure that out?”

Sherlock frowned. “John, I am aware that my deductive abilities are far superior to most but I’m fairly certain the term ‘curly haired bitch’ was obvious enough.” And got into the car before John could reply.

“I meant how do you know she killed Carson?” He asked once he was in.

“Burn marks on the floor badly hidden by carpeting. She must have tried some target practice earlier, not to mention the trench coat and hat in the lobby. I assumed the person I saw running away from the hotel room was a man when in fact Mrs. Carson fits the height and gait perfectly. Clever really, no one would suspect her of killing her husband if he left her a couple of days ago and nobody has seen him since.” Sherlock finished before starting the car.

John felt a bit lightheaded at the simultaneous flow of information and he wasn’t sure why but could feel lust pooling in his gut as he listened to Sherlock’s deductions, his deep voice filling the car with a hint of excitement at the new discovery. “Is that your way of indirectly saying it was a good plot?”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Sherlock concluded with a smirk and drove.

They parked a few houses away and shut the engine. Sherlock leaned back in his seat and focused on their target. They couldn’t see the front door but if Mrs. Carson left the house they would know and be able to follow without raising suspicion. John unwrapped his burger and took a large bite with a satisfied sigh. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was. He had eaten half of it before he noticed Sherlock hadn’t touched his meal.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Hm.”

John rolled his eyes. “If you weren’t planning on eating then why did you order something?”

The agent kept his eyes straight ahead. “Spend Barnabas’ money and delay the moment where you start nagging me to eat.”

John stared at him. “It was your idea to get food in the first place.”

“Because we might be here a while and you get cranky when you’re hungry. Seeing how you’re indulging yourself in this universe, I would rather not be enclosed in a small place with you when you’re in such a state.”

Even though it was wrapped in a biting remark, John was pleased Sherlock cared enough to think of him, even if it was in his own curious, slightly selfish way.

But it was still a diversion. “Eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten in two days-”

“Digestion slows down brain functions.”

“I don’t care whatever logical reasoning you’ve convinced yourself of, but your body needs energy to function-”

“Transport-”

“And you said so yourself, this case is nothing more than a four,”

“More of a six now-”

“You could probably solve it in your sleep. Now shut up and eat.”

Out of spite, Sherlock took a huge bite and chewed it while staring at John. Quite frankly, the sight was hilarious, but John was afraid that if he started laughing Sherlock would spit it out and refuse to eat any further. So he fought the impulse and stared back at the man until he swallowed. They then sat in silence and stared straight ahead for the rest of their meal.

The silence continued on, creating a rather tense atmosphere in the vehicle. It took about 45 minutes for John to start squirming in his seat. The padding in the old car was making his legs numb, which wasn’t ideal if they needed to tail Mrs. Carson.

It certainly wasn’t helping that Sherlock was looking like a damn movie star at the moment. A brooding one certainly, but breathtaking nonetheless. It’s not like John wasn’t going to notice, they were stuck in a car together and hadn’t said a word to each other for almost an hour. Besides staring out at Mrs. Carson’s house, they didn’t have much else to do besides throw subtle glances at one another every now and then.

Sherlock hadn’t moved since he had finished eating, so John had spent most of his time admiring his partner’s profile. It struck him how much he looked like he was in a movie; the brooding detective on a stakeout to capture the murderer. His slight frown paired with his piercing eyes, his sharp cheekbones catching in the light of the nearby lamppost, his full lips, and the line of his jaw before his porcelain skin dipped down along the long muscles of his neck. He just needed a hat to complete the look.

His eyes kept catching John’s attention. There was just something about them in black and white that seemed... off. They still had the same vitality in them, the same clever mind behind them noticing every little detail. But John missed the color palette, the delicate nuances of blue and green that were now shades of gray that couldn’t possibly show the depth of this man’s intelligence. He attempted to imagine the sight in color and he became so focused on the thought that he didn’t realise he had been staring.

“What?” Sherlock asked without turning his head.

“Hm?” John answered out of reflex as he looked away and cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

Sherlock tusked. “Why try to lie when you know how bad you are at it?”

John was already feeling a bit humiliated from being caught checking out his partner, so the snarky remarks were slowly pushing him to lash out. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Good god, this is turning out to be the longest night of my life.”

“Technically, this is the longest _fictional_ night of your life.”

John was about to lose his temper when it hit him how absolutely ridiculous the situation was and started laughing, soon followed by Sherlock.

“This is insane.” John said when he finally stopped laughing long enough to catch his breath. “We’re stuck in a book arguing in black and white while the Warehouse is self destructing and the world might end at any moment.”

“Why would you use a color pallet, or lack thereof, to describe an argument? That’s absurd.”

To which John burst out laughing again, his arms holding his waist, head thrown back. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He wasn’t sure what was so funny, but it didn’t stop a pleased sensation from blooming inside of him like their evening at Angelo’s, knowing he was the cause of this brief joyful moment.

Once he had calmed, John smirked at his partner, his eyes still filled with tears of laughter. “Technically, as Warehouse agents we’re already fictional.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “And why would one say as such?”

“On paper, we don’t exist. The Warehouse is hidden from the public because it could cause riots, theft, or the worst case scenario: someone tries to take over the world. So everything we do goes unrecognised. We are for all intensive purposes exiled from society even though we live in the middle of London.”

Sherlock smiled at his partner even if he already knew all of this. He was pleased that even though the man read rubbish stories and liked to punch people, he was still capable of intellectual thought, no matter how long it took him to do so.

John yawned and stretched his legs as best he could in the small space. “Either way, I didn’t really have a social life before I became an agent, so not much change there.”

“People are dull.”

“Oi! Thanks for that.” John mocked.

“What’s so interesting about other people?”

John shook his head. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Sherlock say such things but it was still a bit unsettling. But they are stuck in this car for an indefinite amount of time, so might as well make the most of it. “You’ve had friends, right?”

Sherlock paused. “Mostly enemies.”

“Not really a surprise there.” John mumbled to himself. “Girlfriends?”

The senior agent went back to watching the house. “Not really my area.”

“Boyfriends?” John wasn’t sure what made his brain ask such a question but it came out before he could stop it.

Sherlock looked back sharply, their eyes locking.

“Which is fine, by the way.” John added, treading safely.

“I know its fine.”

That still wasn’t a clear answer. John had no idea when he would have another chance to get more personal information on his partner so he decided to push a little.

“So you’ve had boyfriends?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What prompted this interrogation?”

“Nothing, I just-” John cursed himself for not finding a proper excuse on the spot.

“What?”

“Is it such a curious question?”

The detective scoffed. “From Freud? No. From an ex Special Forces Captain? Yes.”

“From a doctor?” John offered.

“Lately you’ve hurt more people than you’ve healed.”

John rolled his eyes even though Sherlock was right and tried another approach. “We’re...” He hesitated as his mind searched for the appropriate term. “Friends, right?” And yet that didn’t quite cover it. The work was the foundation of their relationship; if it hadn’t been for the Warehouse, they never would have met, let alone become partners and flatmates. There’s only so many times you can save someone’s life and still try to convince yourself you don’t care about them. And there are only so many times you can wank and try not to think of someone when you come and still consider that someone _just a friend_. No matter the label, John was starting to regret where he was leading the conversation as he felt his partner’s pale eyes roam over him, which was sort of turning him on and not helping the situation at all.

Sherlock had two simultaneous reactions by two completely different parts of his brain. His amygdala, which got wrapped up in the idea of John being his friend, and his frontal lobe, running different scenarios of what the hesitation in John’s delivery could imply.

Were he and John friends? Sherlock wasn’t sure. He couldn’t deny he was flattered if John considered him a friend, even though the term felt a bit underrated to describe the depth of their relationship when you took into account the number of times they had saved each other’s lives. No matter the semantics, he would be honoured to be John’s friend.

Then why the hesitation? Sherlock wondered as his partner licked his lips nervously.

Oh, of course.

John’s physical attraction wasn’t a surprise. It had been obvious from the start, badly hidden beneath a layer of aggressiveness. Sherlock had simply stored it away in his mind palace with the rest of the facts about John. When he was particularly stroppy, Sherlock may have used it to his advantage once or twice. He had always been fascinated by the human brain’s ability to feel anger towards someone and yet still be sexually attracted to them. How anger and sexual desire could mix together in a way that made his pulse jump in ways he hadn’t felt in years. He loathed admitting it to himself but it scared him. It had been so long since he had met anyone not boring. He didn’t know if it was genuine or if he was just wrapped up in the simple pleasures that came with a new distraction that will inevitably lose its novelty and become boring.

Even if he leaned towards the former, the answer didn’t matter. The work was too important to get distracted by such trivial things as carnal pleasure.

And yet, Sherlock could no longer deny his attraction towards John had evolved. The extent of it became clear over dinner at Angelo’s. John’s flirting was a bit more obvious than usual because of the alcohol and it was becoming so easy to make him smile that he got caught up in the moment and flirted back. He couldn’t believe what he had done. Neither could John judging by his reaction, his reddening cheeks a pleasure to watch. Until Sherlock realised what was happening and panicked, deducing the passing waiter as a distraction and quickly pushed everything down.

It all came crashing back. Sherlock finally let himself think about how he felt about John and wished they weren’t stuck in a car together. The mere thought of their relationship evolving made Sherlock’s heart soar and sink simultaneously, making him slightly nauseous as he fought to keep a straight face. He could practically feel himself tearing in half, one part longing to take the leap, the other reminding him that feelings are a distraction and a risk to the Work. They were fine as they were, this could work long term as long as it stayed platonic. There was no point in dwelling in the thought of something more any further. Sherlock pushed it back down and ignored the hollow feeling it left behind.

Almost a full minute after John had spoken, Sherlock answered, his tone devoid of emotion. “I’ll concede it.”

John frowned, unsure how to take that response. “Well, it’s normal for friends to discuss these things.”

Sherlock looked away. “Please don’t.” Even if it was true, even if he was asking as a friend, John had no idea what he was getting into with this topic and Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to discuss it while they were in the middle of a case.

John stared, jaw clenched. Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock acted like a prick for the attention or if he really was trying to cut himself off from society. Even though he was used to this behavior, even if he tried to rationalise it with bad past experiences, it didn’t make being pushed away hurt any less. “Are you purposely trying to be alone?” It came out harsher than John would have wanted.

“What if I am?”

“You’re a human being, you must have-”

John was about to say _urges_ and stopped, turning away. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know anymore. No matter what might have happened at Angelo’s, seeing Sherlock’s reaction to discussing personal topics was starting to make him think that there was little chance whatever was happening between them would go anywhere. It was bad enough he had to ignore his attraction while working and living with the man, the very idea that Sherlock _could_ have urges and chose not to act upon them would make things harder for John. Or worse: the possibility that the attraction could be mutual but not acted upon. It would only be a matter of time before John lost control and pinned the madman against a wall to ravage him. John’s brain suddenly overflowed with multiple scenarios, all of them ending in heated sex.

“What?” Sherlock insisted irritated. “I must have what?”

John was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t think before turning his head at the sound of his partner’s voice. When their eyes met John saw the exact moment when Sherlock noticed his arousal. John’s heart raced as he watched his partner’s eyes flick through each sign. He was worried how Sherlock would react, but some part of him was finding the whole ordeal rather thrilling; he didn’t need to say a word, the man could just read how much he wanted him with a glimpse. And right now, all John could think of was how he could make those fantasies a reality by pinning Sherlock against the car door and kissing him senseless. It would be so easy too, since the car model was so old that it was just one long seat, which was not helping him keep his imagination under control.

Last night was nothing compared to what Sherlock was witnessing right now. John was looking at him with such desire and yet so much restraint. Seeing the man struggle to keep control was somehow making the overall effect even more enticing. Having it displayed at such proximity was giving Sherlock a hard time to keep a coherent line of thought. John must know that he could see it, was seeing it written all over his face, and yet he wasn’t shying away. John was staring right back at him, struggling to keep his breathing under control. The sight of uninhibited desire was making Sherlock breathless and all he could think about was that all he needed to do was give one little sign. One word, that’s all it would take. How would John react if Sherlock leaned in just a little? If he tilted his head and looked at him through his lashes? How long would it take for John to close the space between them?

If John hadn’t been so distracted by his own arousal, he would have noticed Sherlock’s hand twitch before he tightened it into a fist.

They both jumped when a young man knocked on the driver window.

Sherlock rolled down the window.

“Are you the private dick?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened momentarily.

John cleared his throat loudly. “Yes, yes he is.” He said with a straight face, making sure to evade Sherlock’s dumbstruck look or he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing.

“This is for you.” The young man handed Sherlock a folded piece of paper, nodded and walked away.

John was about to get out of the car to interrogate the young man when Sherlock read the note and stopped him.

“John.” He handed it to him and looked around the empty street.

_Meet me in the alley, I can help._

“Sounds like a trap.” John mused as he looked it over.

“Actually, the story just got interesting.”


	3. Plot twist

“John.” Sherlock handed him the note and looked around the empty street.

_Meet me in the alley, I can help._

“Sounds like a trap.” John mused as he looked it over.

“Actually, the story just got interesting.” Sherlock said as he got out of the car.

“Sherlock, you can’t be serious.” John protested in a hushed tone as he caught up. “Aren’t we going to miss Mrs. Carson if we leave?”

Sherlock ignored his partner and continued his investigation of the surroundings as they neared the entrance of an alley. The only light source was the lamp post across the street, casting a long shadow in front of them as they walked along the brick walls on either side. From what they could tell in the fog, they were alone.

“Why is there fog? These are completely unrealistic meteorological conditions.” Sherlock mumbled.

A voice echoed menacingly. “I don’t know how you got here, but you better take to the air.”

“I told you it was a trap.” John mumbled back.

Dressed in a trench coat and hat, a man about John’s height stepped out of the shadows and walked a few steps towards them. He stepped into the light, but his head was tilted forward, his hat casting a shadow across his eyes. When he came to a halt, he slowly raised his head and they recognised the bartender that kept giving them the stink eye in the Indigo Club.

“Drop this case, or I shut both your private eyes for good.” He threatened, his gun aimed at them.

Before John had a chance to take out his own weapon, or try to figure out how the bartender fit into all this, Sherlock spoke.

“John, meet Anthony Bishop.”

John’s jaw dropped. “As in-?”

“Yes.”

“How-?”

Bishop was as surprised as John, though obviously not for the same reasons. He lowered his gun and relaxed his stance. “How did you know it was me?” His voice was different then earlier, not as deep, as if he were breaking character.

“The handwriting on the note matched the one on the title page of your manuscript.” Sherlock explained as he took out the folded page from his coat pocket.

“My manuscript?”

“Anthony Bishop. I can’t believe it, I am such a big fan. I always wanted to go to one of your signings but-”

Sherlock nudged John with his elbow.

“What?”

“Not really the best time to fawn over your favorite author, we’re in the middle of a case.”

“How did you get here?” The author asked them, intrigued.

John opened his mouth and frowned. “It sort of... rained pages on us?”

“How did _you_ end up in here?” Sherlock was more interested in that part of the story.

“What does it matter?” Bishop took a step back.

“Please, Mr. Bishop, it’s important.”

The author smiled feebly at John’s pleading words. Hesitant, he looked over his shoulder, his expression sad yet hopeful. After a moment, he turned back to John. “Well, if you’re fan, then you know how I dedicate every book.”

“ _With love to my love_.” John recited without hesitation, ignoring Sherlock’s disgusted grunt. “All to your wife.”

Bishop nodded. “Something happened. To her.” He shook his head. “It happened so fast.” He continued with emotion. “One day she was sick, and then she was gone. I threw myself into a new novel, wrote a few chapters, and then, well the story was wrong. My wife was all I could think about. I'd sit in front of my typewriter and close my eyes, and I'd imagine this world.” He lifted his head and looked around with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Then one day I woke up and I was here.”

It suddenly all made sense to John. “It wasn't writer's block that created the artifact. It was grief.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that in order to get back to the Warehouse,” Sherlock intervened, his business like tone breaking the mood. “We need to finish the story.”

“No.” Bishop’s deep voice was back. He raised his gun, jabbing it towards the agents to make them raise their arms. “Stop trying to solve it. I don't want this story to end. And why are you here? You should be back at the club trying to corner the fake Mrs. Carson by now.” Bishop looked from one to the other.

Sherlock leaned towards John. “Fake Mrs. Carson?”

“I think he’s talking about Lilly Abbott, the dark curly haired woman from the office.”

“Oh, her. Terrible liar, how could any decent detective not see through her game? Really John, why do you even bother?”

Bishop opened and closed his mouth a few times. “How...?“

Sherlock turned to him. “Quite frankly before working on character development, you should really read up on meteorology, specifically fog occurrences.”

Bishop took a step back and straightened. “It’s a work in progress!”

“Even with your petty attempts to slow me down by erasing the hotel registry, I could still solve this case in my sleep.”

“Sherlock.” John warned.

“What I don’t understand is why you would want to stay in this world? You don’t seem _that_ self indulgent.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the author. “Or rather... _who_ are you staying for?”

Bishop’s eyes widened. “You stay away from Lily. She's special. She's—“

“Based off your wife.” John realised.

“Of course she is.” Sherlock said in a flat tone.

It all made sense now; why John had felt so attracted to her, why this story felt so different from the others. “So if she’s...” He started but was silenced as his mind went through every storyline he’d ever read from his favorite author.

Bishop’s desperate expression confirmed his theory. 

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“I think he’s worried she might die in the shoot out.”

Sherlock tilted his head towards John. “Shoot out, what shoot out?”

“At the end.”

Sherlock blinked a few times as he processed the new information and turned to the author.

“You were grieving your wife so you decided to write her into a story and kill her?”

“Sherlock.” John muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Bishop opened and closed his mouth a few times.

“How could that possibly help?”

The author snapped out of his stupor and aimed anew. “Enough!”

“Will you just _shut it_ next time?” John hissed through his teeth as they raised their arms slowly.

“Why am I the one getting scowled when this man is clearly not in his right mind?”

It was because of lines like these that John struggled with Sherlock. It made him so angry to hear his partner say such inconsiderate things, as if he couldn’t possibly be able to relate on a personal level.

Or maybe he just didn’t feel things that way.

Either way, John spoke with a clenched jaw, concerned what would come out if it wasn’t. “He’s grieving you bloody machine.”

“I said shut it!” Bishop repeated, but it didn’t stop John from noticing something pass through Sherlock’s eyes before he straightened himself and steeled his features.

“I couldn’t save her in the real world, but I will in here. So back off.” Bishop kept punctuating his words by waving the gun around. It just made him seem comical rather than threatening and yet John couldn’t let go of his anger. With ease, he disarmed Bishop, pieces of the gun falling to the ground as he spoke. “Stop waving that around. You’re a writer, not a killer.”

Bishop took a step back at John’s display of skill. “Well, maybe not. But I can stop you from ever finishing this story.” He started to back away from them. “I won't lose her again, see? You're in this book for good.” He turned and ran out of the fog filled alley.

“We’re not doing the whole chasing after him bit?” John would have like to blow off a bit of steam.

“No, he already did what he came here to do.” Sherlock turned and walked back towards the car.

“Which is?” John asked as he had caught up.                                                                             

“Distract us long enough for Mrs. Carson to leave undetected, which in a sense is counterproductive if he doesn’t want us to end the story. He’s putting an awful lot of effort into making the narrative unfurl what he had originally planned.”

John closed his eyes a moment and tried to focus on the case. “How are we supposed to find her now?”

“Barnabas.”

John waited for more and sighed heavily when all he got was a knowing look from Sherlock. “Don’t do that.”

Sherlock frowned, “Do what?” And got in their car.

John followed suit and closed his door a bit harder than necessary. “The look.”

“Look?”

“Yes, you’re doing the look again.”

Sherlock reached for the rear view mirror and studied himself. “Well, I can’t see it, can I?”

“You’re doing the ‘we both know what’s going on here’ face.”

“Well we do-”

“No. _I_ don’t, which is why I find ‘The Face’ so annoying.” John crossed his arms. Yes, he was used to working with a walking-talking ego but just because he doesn’t know the differences between 140 different types of ash doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. Sherlock’s compassion or lack thereof was feeding the nagging thought in the back of his mind that their relationship had reached its peak. John looked in the passenger window and caught sight of Sherlock’s reflection. As angry as he was, it didn’t stop the fact that the smug bastard was looking clever and particularly handsome. It added a new layer to his emotional maelstrom, making his attempt to focus on the case pointless.  

Sherlock’s brain was stuck because John was angry at him. Which that alone was common, but that look right now? Something was different.

John’s anger had started as somewhat of a distraction to Sherlock, quickly learning the different ways to trigger and disarm it. Sometimes pushing things a bit too far... But John was supposed to become boring like everyone else. Like everyone except... Somehow Sherlock had grown to find John’s anger and many other things that define him... endearing. But the anger he was seeing at this moment was new and he couldn’t grasp what it was no matter how hard he looked. The more he looked, the more he wanted to understand what was making John so... whatever he was at the moment, so Sherlock could never do it again and never see that look again. 

Sherlock gasped, completely shocked by what he had just thought, head spinning to look anywhere but at John. They had work to do.

“Mrs. Carson’s going to kill Lilly Abbott in the shoot off as revenge before running off to hide in a generic tropical destination.”

“Where does Barnabas fit in there?”

“She needs money; which character have we met that keeps throwing money around? How is this not obvious to you when it’s most likely how all of Bishops stories go?”

John thought about it quickly. “Just drive.”

They stayed quiet for most of the ride, Sherlock throwing John a few little glances in the hopes of catching anything that could help him understand. When he saw him smiling in the glass reflection, Sherlock frowned.

“I still can’t believe I met Anthony Bishop.”

“Oh for god’s sake.” Sherlock answered in mock exasperation, but he was relieved by John’s teasing.

* * *

 

They were greeted by valet parking as they drove up to the Indigo Club. Two young men opened their doors and took the keys from Sherlock who didn’t bother to wait for the ticket. With a tight smile, John took the ticket and caught up with his partner.

The Indigo Club was filled with elegantly dressed guests dancing, talking, and overall seeming to enjoy themselves. The lighting was different from earlier. It was dimmer, softer, giving the room a more intimate ambiance. There was a live band playing, tables with long white cloths around the room with a candle on each of them.

Heads turn as Sherlock walked by, possibly because they were the only ones who weren’t wearing a tuxedo or because of his natural grace and beauty judging by the looks directed his way as he pushed through the crowded club.

But the fat man was no longer in his booth. Sherlock grabbed the nearest waitress that fought not to glare at him for almost dropping her tray.

“Where’s Barnabas?”

She looked Sherlock up and down, smacked her gum loudly and raised an eyebrow. Seeing how this could quickly turn into the both of them getting kicked out of the club, John dug into his pocket and cleared his throat before sliding a fiver on her tray. She winked at him, looked around and leaned close to John’s ear carefully placing a hand on his chest.

“He got a phone call, and dusted out.” She whispered and leaned away, fiddling a bit with his tie before moving away to serve another patron.

“What did she say?”

John shook his head. “Should’ve known... He got a phone call and left."

“Now what?” Sherlock grumbled. “We can’t trace the call. How else can we know where he went or who called him? Where are you going?”

“Again, read a book sometime.” John commented over his shoulder and navigated his way through the crowd to the bar. “Hey kid, bring me the phone.”

The young man placed the old model in front of them, making sure not to trip on the cord.

John tapped the line. “Operator? Say miss, what’s your name? Doris, what a beautiful name. I’m certain you have a lovely face to match that sultry voice. A red head, I love red heads. No, what do they say?” A flirty chuckle came out of John, earning him an elbow in the ribs.

“Will you stop flirting; we have a murderer to catch.” Sherlock hissed in his free ear.

John swatted his partner away. His voice was distracting him in more ways than he cared to think about. “Listen, Doris, do you think you could help me out? Did you by any chance listen to the last phone call?” John frowned. “Maybe, I don’t know... Something about an elephant?”

 Sherlock tried to tilt the receiver so he could hear but John pushed him back with his free hand, his fingers fanned out against his chest as he held Sherlock at arm’s length. Regretting his move, he fought to stay concentrated on Doris’s story instead of the warm body under his hand.

“Brains and beauty, you’re the whole package Doris. Thanks.” He hung up and reluctantly removed his hand; carefully avoiding imagining what it would have felt like without the thin layer of fabric.

“So?”

John eyed him playfully. “Can’t you deduce it?”

He could’ve, if he hadn’t been focused on John’s warm calloused hand pressed against his chest instead of deducing Doris’ answers.

“Figured you’d prefer the false satisfaction of telling me.”

John grinned. “Wanker.”

They headed out; John handed their ticket to the valet and waited silently, looking up and down the street, listening to the music filtering out of the club.

“Are you saying you prefer I deduce the information rather then you telling me?”

John raised an eyebrow.

“I’m asking for future reference. You know: communication, teamwork. Stop looking at me like that, you’re the one who’s always going on about boundaries, and yet you insist on wearing those ridiculous pants-”

“Admit it, you have no clue.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue when their car arrived. The valet stepped out and held the driver door open.  With a smug smile, John climbed in and waited. As soon as the passenger door closed, they drove off.

They rode in silence for a few blocks before John noticed that Sherlock was deducing him.

“You’re seriously not going to admit it?” John asked, trying not to think why he wanted to rub it in so much.

Sherlock turned away. “The gray is throwing me off.”

John chuckled softly. It was as much of an admission as he was going to get. “According to my new friend Doris, Barnabas is buying an elephant on the 4th street Bridge.”

“I do admit,” Sherlock was looking anywhere but at John. “Your knowledge of pop culture can be useful.”

John’s eyebrows rose. It wasn’t exactly a complement, but it was the closest he was going to get.

“It wouldn’t kill you to watch a Bond movie once in a while.”

“It might.” Sherlock countered deadpan.

They waited a beat before turning to each other and bursting out laughing. The lightness they both felt in their chest was blamed on the silliness of the argument, underlining the absurdity and craziness of their lives. The joy of sharing moments like these where they both let themselves bask in the growing ease with which they worked together, navigated around each other, the constant pull slowly bringing them closer together.

 

* * *

 

It was around eleven pm when they parked in front of the bridge.

_The place was deserted. The asphalt was still wet from the evening drizzle, the fog blocking the light from the lampposts, giving the bridge an eerie feel._

“Will you stop narrating?!”

“Sorry, forgot you could hear.”

Sherlock had daggers in his eyes from John’s obvious lie. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“The bridge on Fourth Street, just like Doris said.”

There was no one in sight.

“Maybe we missed it?” John offered.

Sherlock started walking along the bridge; John went on the other side. He was 4 pillars down when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps stop. He looked up and saw him take a few steps back, look around and frown before heading to the side railings. He crouched to inspect them, but it didn’t last very long. Slowly, he straightened and peered over the railing.

“John.”

The former soldier frowned and walked up next to his partner. He was about to ask when he saw Barnabas’ body on the river bank, not far from the water. Even from the bridge the electrical burns were visible on his body.

“Christ.”

Near the end of the bridge were stairs leading to the bank. As they made their way down, John could see the white suit beneath his trench coat. He stood in front of the steps and watched as Sherlock walked a large circle around the body.

“He came alone, probably at her request. They fought on the bridge before Barnabas got hit by the artifact. The force of the shot made him fall over the railing. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

“Where do you think she is now?”

Sherlock straightened and dusted himself off. “Off to kill Lilly in a jealous rage, as any boring and predictable book would do.”

John chuckled and shook his head when he noticed the smile tugging at his partner’s lips.  They shouldn’t be joking around a dead body, even if it was a fictional one. John looked up and as their eyes met he could feel his body leaning towards his partner again.  Sherlock was almost the poster boy of noir films in his suit and fedora as he turned and walked up the stairs to the deserted bridge. As he followed, John wished he could take a picture.

The sight of John wavering as their eyes locked sent a wave of pleasure through Sherlock, tempting him to focus on his partner instead of the case. But this was Rebecca Carson’s second murder and even if she was fictional, she needed to be stopped. It was fascinating in a sense, how he struggled with his own body to turn away from John. The jog up the stairs helped him regain some composure, his mind back on the case as he walked to the car.

John’s smile dropped when he stepped onto the bridge. Rebecca Carson had stepped out from one of the pillars. Time seemed to slow down as she raised the Jade Elephant, her face contorting with anger as she aimed at Sherlock’s back.

“Sherlock!” John screamed as he ran, both hands pushing his partner away as his legs propelled him into the air, effectively shielding him with his body.

The loud electrical sparks covered the sound of John’s body hitting the pavement, unconscious and limp, shirt still fuming from the blast.

“John!” The desperate scream filled the empty street as Sherlock crawled to him, shielding his body from Rebecca with his own. One hand searched for a pulse, the other grabbed his gun and aimed.

“Give me one good reason not to kill you right here, right now.”

“I loved Oliver, until he found this stupid elephant and dumped me for some dopey dame with a voice.” Her tone was filled with disgust, but Sherlock could discern every hitch, every variation in her tone showing how terrified she really was. “He left me with nothing. I deserved payback. So I stole the elephant to get the reward money. But that no good Barnabas decided he could just take it.”

“You fool.” Sherlock spat back. “Carson ran because he was protecting you from what he had found. He didn’t want to give it to Barnabas because of what that fat idiot was planning to do with it. Lily Abbott had nothing to do with this; she’s in love with the barman. You already killed your husband for nothing. I grant you that the world is better off without Barnabas, but there’s no reason to hurt anyone else. Now, give me the Elephant before you regret ever hurting John Watson.” Sherlock could see her slowly losing her composure as he exposed the facts.

“You really think I’m going to surrender so easily?”

He looked her up and down, his disdain evident on his face. “If you had any brains you would.”

Rebecca Carson growled in anger and took another shot, hitting the pillar behind Sherlock who had ducked, his body covering John’s. When he looked back, Rebecca had run away, lost in the fog. He kneeled and checked John’s pulse again; his own heart rate doubling when couldn’t find one.

“John! John, come on, wake up John.” Sherlock said as he moved around him to perform CPR. He counted through clenched teeth the chest compressions. “Come on John. Wake up.” He breathed three times, pausing between each one.

“You can’t die, not here, not like this. John. John!” He smashed his fist against his sternum and felt his own heart skip a beat as John woke, gasping for air.

“Oh thank god.”

Sherlock sat back on his feet and helped John roll to his side to cough. He kept his hands on him, relieved at the feel of his living body. Slowly, his breathing calmed but still sounded wheezy.  John sat up and rubbed his chest, hissing at the tenderness of his sternum. He looked down as he registered the burnt suit beneath his fingers.

“That would have been a lousy ending.”

Sherlock laughed, relieved. He still had both hands on him, one on his shoulder, and the other on his knee. At this point, it was all he could do not to grab the man and hold him tightly in his arms. He took a deep breath and pushed back the impulse, but unable to move away his hands.

John was staring at Sherlock. His concern was so clear, so present that John went into a bit of shock himself, quickly followed by his insides twisting. It was sort of a relief, knowing that as detached as Sherlock acted, he did care, even if it was in his own way. John could feel the warmth of his hands seeping through the fabric of his clothes, making him focus on something else then the pain in his chest from the blast. John was still so surprised by Sherlock’s distress that he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s on his knee and squeezed lightly. They didn’t look at each other, simply stared at their joint hands a moment as they calmed down. Slowly, Sherlock twisted his hand in John’s grip and squeezed back.

Suddenly very nervous, John broke the silence. “So she got away?”

“Yes, but I know where she went.” Sherlock reassured as he tugged John’s hand to help him stand.

“Back to the Indigo club?”

“Good, you’re finally catching on as to how predictable this case is.”

“Just help me up, will you?”

With a smirk Sherlock helped John to his feet, both of them silently regretting the loss of contact. John hid it by dusting himself off, not expecting his vision to black and stagger forward. Sherlock moved and caught John before he stumbled. He ended up completely pressed against his partner’s chest, Sherlock’s strong arms holding him up.

“John?”

Sherlock was concerned about John’s health, but he was also very aware that he was pressed tightly against him, his face in the crook of his neck, warm puffs of air tickling his skin.

“John, are you ok?”

The low grumble of Sherlock’s voice woke John, head twisting against his chest as he attempted to put weight on his feet. Sherlock accommodated his movements, but didn’t let go in fear he would fall again. It wasn’t until John had both hands gripping either side of Sherlock’s waist, forehead pressed against his chest, that he realised he was in his partner’s arm. And once he did, his body went rigid but John didn’t step away.

He let out a shaky breath.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the sound and warmth against his chest. It was all he needed as evidence of John’s state of mind. He pictured his dilated pupils and listened as John’s breathing quickened. Reluctantly, Sherlock took the sensations and hid them in his mind for later. They still had a murderer to catch.

“Are you alright?”

“Yea-” John cleared his throat, surprising even himself by how husky it was, “Yeah.” And stood more firmly on his feet but still didn’t step away. Didn’t release his grip on Sherlock’s waist. Didn’t move his forehead from Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “John.” He wished his voice didn’t sound so pained as he slowly unwrapped his arms, making sure John was stable enough to stand on his own. “We need to catch Rebecca Carson.”

John snapped out of it and released Sherlock, taking a step back. Looking anywhere but at him, John rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, we uh, you better drive then.”

“Probably should, yes.”

In a loaded silence, they walked back to the car. Their eyes met briefly before they moved to either side of the car but it still felt like it lasted a small eternity full of things unsaid. They climbed in, and as Sherlock started the engine, he told John what had happened while he was unconscious, helping them both regain their composure and focus on the case as they drove to the Indigo Club.

* * *

 

As soon as they stepped in the lobby, an electrical charge hit the floor right in front of Sherlock; nearly missing his feet as John pulled him back just in time. They looked up and there was Rebecca Carson, standing proudly at the top of the elegant marble staircase. She was holding Lily hostage, a gun aimed at her head and a bag of money by her feet.

“You and your loogan just made a trip for biscuits. Now I'm putting you in a wooden kimono.” She screamed.

Sherlock turned to John. “That is one of the most horrible lines I have ever heard.”

John ignored Sherlock and aimed at Rebecca. “It doesn’t matter, this is over.” He knew he could make the shot without putting Lily in danger.

He was about to fire when a bullet hit the wall next to his head. Anthony Bishop stepped out from behind one of the columns that lead into the main room, gun raised and a dangerous look in his eye. The lighting from the bar in the background was completing the dramatic effect.

Sherlock had to admit the man knew how to make a dramatic entrance.

“You let Rebecca walk out of here so she lets Lily go, or you both die.” Bishop threatened, clearly at the end of his rope.

John stared at him in disbelief. “She’s already killed two innocent people, you could be the next.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Bishop answered in a steady voice as he looked towards Lily with loving eyes.

She looked back at him lovingly and pleaded in a soft voice. “Tony, are you bananas? They're on our side.”

“Shut your trap, you dumb broad!” Rebecca cursed, tightening her grip on the woman.

John insisted. “Mr. Bishop, I understand you don’t want to lose someone you love, but this has to end.”

“No!” The author shook his gun. “My life is here now, with Lily.”

“Tony, I love you.” Her voice made him turn to her. “But if you think I'd let you hurt anybody just to save me, well you don't know me at all.”

A melancholic look spread through Bishop’s features. “You're just like her; pure and sweet and usually right.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“I know.” She smiled lovingly before turning to her captor.

They certainly weren’t expecting to see her punch Rebecca in the face, run down the stairs, grab her lover’s hand and hide behind the bar.

“You go with them; I’ll distract her.” Sherlock instructed to John before turning away.

He ran for cover on the other side of the staircase, effectively getting her attention while John joined the hidden couple, suddenly feeling like he was interrupting something.

“What did you do? You could have gotten hurt?” Bishop was telling her, hands running across her looking for wounds.

“It was worth it for the chance to finally go to Bora Bora with you.”

“Lily, I can’t believe you did that!”

“Me either!” And they started laughing before throwing themselves into each other’s arms.

“I love you baby, I love you so much, you’re all I care about.”

“You mind doing this later?” John asked over the sound of the blast, checking on Sherlock just in time to see him thrown to the floor. He held his breath until he saw the mop of dark hair crawl to safety.

At least now they had a chance to stop Rebecca and save everyone. With another glance around the bar, John knew he could take her out easily, but he had to act fast. He turned to Bishop. “Is there any way Rebecca could be a real person trapped in a fictional character?”

“No,” The author shook his head. “I-I based her off my mother-in-law.”

“Oh good, you won’t mind this, then.”

John’s eyes hardened before he turned, aimed and hit Rebecca directly in the chest. Wide eyed, her body fell over the railings and to the floor like a rag doll, the Jade Elephant lying next to her limp hand.

* * *

 

The agents strolled out of the Indigo club. The lamp posts along the deserted street were creating cones of light in the fog.

“Well,” John started, unsure what to say after the day’s events and considering they were heading into more danger soon. “That was an interesting case.”

“Definitely unexpected.” Sherlock eyed him sideways and fought against the urge to smirk. “You seemed to enjoy yourself.”

John chuckled nervously. “I’d say so, yeah.” His cheeks warmed. Part of his mind thought of the sensation of being pressed against him, but he knew Sherlock was talking about the book and meeting Anthony Bishop. John looked down the street; the sight of old Chicago, of what he had been imagining since he’d been a young teenager still felt unreal. He couldn’t explain the simple joy he was experiencing just standing here, after having solved a case. He looked up at his partner and smiled, happy to see it returned. He already knew this case would be a fond memory, in more ways than he could have expected.

The fog on their left caught John’s attention. “Hey Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I’m-, hand me the elephant, would you?”

“Why?”

“Just, trust me, ok?”

They stared at each other until John got impatient. He knew he would have to tell Sherlock about his sixth sense eventually, but now wasn’t the moment. “Sherlock, we have an emergency to get back to, will you just hand me the elephant?”

With a scowl, Sherlock complied. It was heavier than John thought, and he wasn’t surprised at the tingling sensation in his hand. Ignoring Sherlock’s unconvinced look, John shot into the fog in the middle of the street, making a blue lined wormhole into the Warehouse appear, bright and colorful, contrasting with the black and white of the manuscript’s universe.

“How did you know the fog would be our way home?” Sherlock wasn’t even trying to hide his suspicion.

Thankfully, John had a good explanation for this one. “It’s the end of Casablanca. They stole that from Bishop you know?”

Sherlock crossed his arms and mumbled. “Haven’t seen it.”

John shook his head, unsurprised. “I will fix that some day.”

The author came out arm in arm with Lily and they joined them, both too preoccupied with the other to take notice of the giant glowing portal.

“What going to happen when we leave?”

Sherlock pondered it for a moment. “The story's over. Either they live on in the story or disintegrate.”

John frowned at the tall man for his lack of tact, which didn’t seem to affect Bishop as he looked into Lily’s eyes. “One more second with her is a happier ending than a lifetime without her.”

John smiled and nudged his partner with his elbow. “Good line.”

Sherlock shrugged. “For a gritty crime novel, this ending seems more like a romance.”

“Maybe that’s why he had writer’s block. He didn’t realise he was writing a love story.” John’s thoughts came to a halt at his own words.

It all made sense now; they were just too caught up in the story. John felt something shift in the way he felt about his partner, and judging by Sherlock’s reaction on the bridge, he must have also been affected, all because this universe was created out of grief for a loved one. Which also meant the effects will most likely fade with time.

With a resigned air, John watched the couple embrace each other, happy to finally have a chance to be together. He then took one last look at their surroundings, ending his trail on Sherlock, devastatingly handsome in black and white looking at the horizon.

“Are you ready?” He asked after a moment.

Sherlock turned; John’s breath catching as he locked eyes with him and shook his head.

“Almost. Give me the title page.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but handed it to John with a smile.

“Mr. Bishop? Would you mind signing this?”

The author smiled at John’s request, hesitating before signing the page. “Looking back, I think I’d change the title to _The Case of the Missing Jade Elephant_.” Bishop thought out loud.

“That’s what I said!” John confessed excitedly, paying no attention to Sherlock’s patient sigh.

“Really? Do you write to?”

“Me? Pff, no.” John had a dopey smile on his face as Bishop scribbled his name and handed the page back.

“I’ll explain on the way to Bora Bora.” He told Lily’s at her confused expression and grabbed her hand.

They waived at the agents one last time before climbing into a cab and driving off into the night.

“Come on,” Sherlock said close to John’s ear. “We have a world to save.” He winked and headed towards the portal.

John safely put the page away and let himself indulge in this universe one last time.

_The detective and his partner walked off into the fog and left the lovers in their embrace. An embrace that would last forever._

“Stop narrating!”

* * *

 

As they stepped into the Warehouse, John blinked a few times as his eyes adapted to the return of color, which was comforting in a sense. He was relieved to be back and pleased to see he was wearing the battery pack and still holding the elephant.

Until Sherlock tackled him to the paper covered floor, saving them both from the oncoming electrical ball that crashed into the shelves a few rows down.

“So time stayed still while we were gone.” John said with difficulty, since his ribcage was constrained between Sherlock’s and the battery.

“If you insist on stating the obvious.” Sherlock looked around before moving off John. “We need to go to the neutralizer processing center.”

John stood and was about to take off the pack when Sherlock stopped him. “Keep it; it’s useless against the sphere, but doesn’t mean we won’t need it on our way.”

They ran down the alley away from the sphere, taking a detour around it to head east. Besides the mean looking cloud above and the small earthquake they felt before going down a steel spiral staircase, nothing slowed them down as they raced to their goal.

At the bottom of the stairs was a medium sized room with a central system that reminded John of the inside of the Tardis but without the console, just a large clear glass tube with purple goo glowing inside. At the far end wall were large steel gears covered in what seemed to be a cocoon like substance, only bright pink.

“Oh no.” Sherlock uttered in a grave tone.

John looked from the gears to his partner. “What? What is it? And what’s that?”

“Sticky string, manufactured by M. Undermann Novelies Corporation Laboratory by a chemical engineer. We have the original batch of 18 cans.”

“Why does it smell like chicken?”

“Whatever you do, do not touch it with your bare hands.” Sherlock handed him a pair of gloves. “If it grabs on, it will not let go.”

“Then how are we supposed to get it off?”

“Haven’t you ever frozen gum before?”

John ignored Sherlock’s know it all tone to point out the obvious. “Do you happen to have an artifact that can dump a giant vat of ice onto that thing?”

“Of course not. But we have a piece of driftwood from the Titanic.”

“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” John retorted sarcastically.

Sherlock smirked before turning around and running back up the spiral staircase, his coat flapping away behind him. John followed him down the row of stacked containers before taking a right. The area became colder as they made their way down a row filled with boat related items. Before he had a chance to look around, Sherlock had grabbed the driftwood from the shelf and was about to call to John when he noticed a red ball in the corner of his eye, bouncing across the end of the row.

“Oh no.” Sherlock said gravely before running off to follow it.

“Sherlock? Where are you going?” John looked back a moment before following.

The tall man kept running as he spoke. “It’s one of the juggling balls, we have to stop it.”

“Do I need to remind you we’re already in the middle of something? What harm could it possibly cause that is more important than that glowing ball of energy?”

“Kind of like the GPS, they’re mischievous. I could tell you stories, but this isn’t really the best time.”

As he finished his sentence, they watched the ball roll onto a fallen book, making a ramp that took it up to the first shelf, bumping into a white porcelain tea set in a metal tray, shattering them and simultaneously making the shelf shake, causing several artifacts to move to the ledge and fall off one after the other, including a leather bound case. It had a metal flip lock that opened as it fell, revealing Walt Disney’s paintbrush that floated out. It bounced off the floor, flipped in the air a few times before the tip hit a shoe box. It slowly changed color, making it appear cartoonish. Suddenly, the box’s lid popped opened and out came large cartoon shoes that started walking around, eventually heading to a large displayed armor and kicking it.

“No!”

Sherlock’s scream was lost in the sound of shrieks that John was certain came from the armor. Eyes wide, they watched as the helmet, a sort of iron shaped bowl with a leather back, moved and looked up at them. Slowly, the breastplate started to wriggle, red and brown stripped lacquered leather with pale lacings, which matched with the leather chaps and boots.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was calm even though his eyes were wide. “What is that thing?”

“Genghis Khan’s armor.”

John’s jaw dropped at the same moment as the latches binding his boots came undone, freeing it from the supporting base. They moved back as it bashed around, breaking everything in its path, moving slowly towards the agents. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“No need to worry John; I’m handy with a sword.”

“What sword?” John didn’t like where this was going, not one bit. “Sherlock, you can’t possibly-”

“No time to argue. Go fix the processing center; I’ll take care of this.” He ordered, throwing the wood plank to him before taking a step towards the armor.

“Sherlock.” John couldn’t help it; he had a bad feeling about this.

“Go! Now!”

No matter how bad he felt, John knew Sherlock was right, he had to go _now_. With a last look, he turned and ran. Once he got there, every light on the wall was blinking angrily.

He looked at the artifact in his hand and realised Sherlock hadn’t told him how it worked. No matter, he could do this, he could figure it out. He took off one of his gloves and touched the wood. He felt a chill run down his spine, making him take his hand away. The cold sensation left instantly.

“Woah.”

He shook his hand a bit before he grabbed onto the plank, not fighting back the shaking breath that came out as he felt immersed in cold, like being dumped into an ice filled tub.

“Oh shit that is cold.” Slowly, his teeth stopped chattering as his body acclimated to the artifact. “Oh.” He exclaimed as he suddenly understood what he needed to do.

Lifting the plank to chin height, John aimed it at the silly string and blew. A puff of cold air raised from the end of the plank, growing steadily and freezing anything in its path, specifically the silly string, turning from bright pink to a pale shade of blue that shimmered in the lights.

Relieved, John took his hand off the wood and dropped it next to him. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked for something to smash the frozen sticky string.

He smiled as his eyes found the ax on the wall over the emergency station. As quickly as his defrosting body would let him, he made it to the station, broke the glass with his elbow and grabbed the axe.

Looking for the best spot to hit, John rubbed his hands together and rolled his shoulders to warm up his muscles. When he found what seemed like a good spot, he raised the axe and swung with all his might.

The string shattered instantaneously, making John take a few steps back. With a loud creak, the gears broke the remaining pieces and started turning again. The central tube sprang to life, emitting large bubbles, reminding John of a lava lamp.

With a tired smile, he grabbed the axe and the plank and jogged back to the stairs, hoping Sherlock was doing as well as he was.

* * *

 

“Where is it?!” Sherlock cursed as he looked around. He had led them to the Mongolian Empire section knowing it was around here somewhere. He was trying to evade the armor to buy himself and John some time, but he was going to need a weapon soon.

The Armor swung again, making the unarmed agent duck behind the shelf, causing the blade to impact with its contents. Fortunately, as the boxes and spears tumbled to the floor, they revealed a wooden crate.

“Ah, there it is!” Quickly, he pushed off the lid, took off his latex gloves and grabbed the sabre. As he straightened, Sherlock eyed The Armor, moving slowly towards the center of the alley to face his opponent.

The Armor answered with intimidation, hitting his breastplate with his red leather glove as he moved into his fighting stance.

With his lightweight weapon held in front of him, the agent’s right hand held onto the hilt as his left grabbed the carved sheath and slowly revealed the crucible steel blade. A high pitched sound echoed like a battle cry, warning its opponents it was ready to fight. The curved blade seemed to glow in the darkly lit area. Sherlock smiled dangerously at his opponent as he felt the artifact tingle in his hand, its excitement and lust for blood contagious as its power spread up his arms.

With a cry, they lunged at each other, blades clinking as they attacked, parried and counter attacked. It didn’t take long before their blades hit and engaged, weighing each other’s strengths before pushing each other away with enough force to cause them to take a few steps back.

Sherlock stood with the hilt at his hip, his blade facing up and forward. “You’re not too bad for a nine hundred year old hollow suit.”

The ground rumbled as the Armor charged much faster than the agent was expecting. Almost as if the artifact were protecting him, the sabre swung up and to the left, but it was too late. Even though his parry saved him from a blow to the heart, the Armor’s blade still cut his left shoulder.

“Touchy.” Sherlock tusked, ignoring the blood steadily running down his arm and attacked, trying his best to get him close to an emergency station.

With three rapid lunges, the Armor backed down the alley, exactly where Sherlock wanted him. Evading the counter attack, the agent slid to the right and turned, kicking the Armor forward, making him loose his footing and stumble onto the floor.

“John, now would be a good time to fix the emergency system!”

Sherlock sprinted to the fire hose, dropping his weapon next to it while he released the nozzle and started pulling it free. When he checked over his shoulder, he wasn’t expecting his opponent to already be up and charging at him. It wasn’t even using its weapon. The agent dropped the hose and twisted his body in the hopes of evading the hit, but in vain. The leather armor struck the side of his body, making him crash into the hose reel and crumble to the floor.

Sherlock bit his lip to stop the groan that wanted to come out. A few of his ribs were damaged and he cringed as he stretched his arm to grab his sabre lying close by. The bloodlust returned, crawling up his arms and spreading through his body, numbing the pain. His eyes dark, he stood, naturally falling into stance as he held the hilt next to his head, the tip pointing towards the hollow armor.

_You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?_

John’s playful voice rang through the agent’s head, making him smile before charging his opponent. The clang of metal rang rhythmically as their blades clashed repeatedly; moving around the area like an energetic dance, until Sherlock finally heard the beeping sound he had been waiting for.

“About time.” He attempted to take control of the fight to move them back towards the hose, but the armour wasn’t letting him. It was the disadvantage of fighting an artifact; they never tire. Even though Sherlock’s sabre was giving him increased power; it was also feeding off his energy, slowly draining him.

He defended himself as best he could, taking no notice of the blood from his arm slowly dripping onto the floor. He let the sabre take control of his movements and managed to knock off its helmet. It didn’t affect it in any way, except perhaps aggravating it.

“Sherlock!”

He turned his head towards the sound of John’s voice, filling him with relief, hope and pride.

John appeared alert and relieved at the sight of his partner still up and fighting.

“The hose!” Sherlock screamed as he jumped out of the way of a jab and stumbled to the floor. He flipped onto his back and lifted his leg just in time to stop the moving artifact; one foot on the breastplate while he blocked the sword with his own, a bit too close to his face for his liking. The Armor’s blade scratched the floor next to Sherlock’s head, leaving a mark in the concrete.

With a flash of red, John struck the Armor’s side with his axe as if it were a golf ball, knocking him off Sherlock. John kicked its weapon away before moving back to his injured partner.

“Are you ok? How’s your shoulder?” John frowned in concern as his hand hovered over the wound.

“The hose.” Sherlock explained breathlessly as he sat up. “Neutralise it.”

John grabbed his unhurt arm and helped him stand. Sherlock’s eyes were on the armor, which was crawling to its weapon, not bothering with its helmet.

“Hurry.” The tall man insisted, pushing John away before raising his sabre to prepare for the next attack.

John took one glimpse at the artifact getting to its feet and ran to the hose.

The Armor jabbed and lost balance as Sherlock’s footwork placed him behind his opponent, kicking it from behind and knocking it forward. Hoping to give it one last good hit before John blasted it with neutraliser, the agent grabbed the handle with both hands and raised the blade over his head.

As John aimed and turned on the hose, he watched the armor spin while unbalanced and stab Sherlock in the gut just as his arms had started to strike down.

Time slowed as their eyes met.

John watched Sherlock’s mouth form a small o as his hands released his weapon. His arms slowly fell to his sides in an uneven arc as he stumbled back into a stack of wooden crates, sliding down and leaving a streak of blood across the pale wood.

Sherlock watched John’s eyes grow and his lips twist as he cried out. He didn’t hear how his name sounded when filled with anger, disbelief and affection. All he could hear was white noise as his body threatened to go into shock. But his eyes were focused on John’s face as he neutralised the Armor, anger coming out of him like a tidal wave as he screamed over the sound of lifeless armor pieces splashing into the purple puddle on the floor.

Kicking the pieces away, John knelt next to Sherlock, his hands moving to inspect the sabre still embedded in his abdomen. He carefully pulled back the torn up clothes and at the sight of the wound he blanched.

“That bad?” Sherlock smiled tightly.

John fought to keep his calm doctor mask on. “You’ve probably had worse.”

“Probably. Still hurts though.” Sherlock smile faded as he hissed in pain.

John checked his pulse, eyes moving from his watch to his partner’s face as he counted in his head. He was not good. He couldn’t know how many internal organs had been damaged, but in any case, if he wasn’t taken into emergency surgery right now, the blood loss would probably kill him first.

“Warning, five minutes until total destruction of the Warehouse.” Mycroft’s robotic voice rang loudly in the sound system.

“What!? But I just fixed the neutraliser!”

“It didn’t fix what caused it.” Sherlock explained with a hiss of pain.

“For fuck’s sake.” There was always something else.

“Help me up.”

“No! Sherlock, you can’t move!” John exclaimed, placing his hand on his unhurt shoulder to stop him as his commanding tone creeped out. “You have severe internal damage, not to mention the blood loss if you get up-”

“I can, you’re just -” Sherlock’s sentence was cut short as a sharp pain coursed through his abdomen. Ignoring John’s I-told-you-so-face, Sherlock grabbed his hand and squeezed. “GPS. Go.” His voice tight as his body struggled through the pain.

John squeezed back. “Where do I send it?”

The agent slowly pulled out a small piece of paper from his pocket.

John frowned as he looked at the neatly written numbers. “When did you have time to write this?”

Sherlock smiled as best he could. “When I cleared the table.”

John put away the paper and shook his head. “Incredible.”

A shy smile illuminated Sherlock’s eyes, making John’s stomach clench. They both knew he might not be conscious when John made it back. _If_ John made it back.

Mycroft’s recorded voice completed the impending doom effect. “Four minutes to Warehouse destruction.”

“Go.” Sherlock whispered.

With one last squeeze, John released his hand and ran towards what had started it all.


	4. Plot Device

As John ran to the sphere, the air became dense with tangential energy. It felt like running through waves of emotions, making him breathless as he rapidly empathised with each one. They became stronger as he neared the source, yet none of it slowed him down.

Mycroft’s voice rang loudly as John ran past a speaker. “Warehouse destruction in three minutes.”

The only countdown John cared about was Sherlock’s. That’s what he was focused on as he pushed past every obstacle in his path.

Loud crackling and blue flashes were what made the former soldier slow down. He reached the end of the row and didn’t even bother to check for possible threats before walking out into the open. He didn’t need to, he could feel it. The translucent blue sphere shun brightly under the dark cloud.  It had grown, turning it from threatening to downright deadly, yet at the sight of it John didn’t bat an eye. In fact, he walked around to inspect it, barely moving out of the way of the smaller electrical balls orbiting around the sphere. He didn’t know what he was looking for, and yet somehow he did. Given the situation, he didn’t care about how his ‘gift’ worked; he needed to fix things _now_. So John let whatever was guiding him do so.

What he wasn’t expecting was to end up standing in front of a shelf two rows down from the sphere. He had simply wanted to take a step back and have a look at the situation from afar. But something kept... pulling, kept nagging,. Not in his head, in his core. Not quite like a gut instinct but... Nevertheless, he was in front of the few shelves still standing, looking straight at a steel mace with spikes at the end. It seemed to call out to him, empathising with his rage and desire to vanquish his opponent. With a smirk, John grabbed it and relished the feeling of power that washed over him as he weighed the well balanced weapon in his hand.

With a twist of his wrist the weapon spun in the air, emitting a menacing hiss that made John smile as he turned and made his way back to the sphere. As he approached, a large arc formed on the surface and struck in John’s direction. Letting himself be guided by the artifact, he held onto the mace with both hands. At the last second, he moved to the side, replacing his body with the artifact.

The hit resonated through the weapon and down to his hands, travelling up his arms and all the way down his legs, making him close his eyes at the sheer force of it. His hands tightened around the grip when he felt it switching direction when it reached his toes. Intuitively, John used the shift and spun around. As he felt it travel down his arms, he finished his movement and swung, shooting the charge out the end of the mace back to the sphere.

It hit dead center, causing a backlash that hit everything in a 10 meter radius, propelling John’s body across the floor. With a grunt, he twisted to see the damages on the sphere. There was a clear hole but it looked like it was starting to close. Quickly, John rushed to his feet and ran, throwing himself through the slowly closing opening, thankfully getting through before he lost a limb.

Contrary to the loud crackling electricity of the outside, the inside was almost quiet. The air was oddly calm, like being in the eye of the storm during a hurricane, were it not for the low pulsing drone. Nothing aggressive, more of a cyclic type sound, like a spinning clothes dryer. John was thrown off by the fact that he wasn’t only hearing the drone, he was feeling it. Like the vibration of the base drum at a concert you can feel in the ground and in your chest, only now John felt like it pulsed and resonated with his core instead of vibrating. He straightened with more difficulty then he cared to admit, resorting to leave his weapon on the floor so he could hold on to his knees with both hands while his body adapted.

 “Warehouse destruction in two minutes.”

Mycroft’s voice helped John snap out of the hypnotising effect of the drone and turn to the innocent looking GPS sitting on a large wooden crate. “Alright, we got the message, you don’t like it here, you can go now.”

John wished that that would have enough for the artifact to leave.

Seeing as nothing was happening, he proceeded to get it out of here the safest way he knew how. “Activate voice command.”

A red LED lit up on the top left of the device before speaking in a broken computer generated voice. “Voice command activated.”

“Auxiliary.”                                                                        

“Choose option.”

John could swear the GPS was talking slowly just to annoy him. “Mission upload.” He enunciated clearly, sarcasm dripping off every syllable.

“Warehouse destruction in one minute.”

“Enter coordinates.”

John scrambled to take out the paper Sherlock had given him, carefully unfolding it and reading aloud, reminding himself to ask where these led when this was over. He waited as the GPS processed the coordinates, fidgeting, looking from the screen to the sphere.

“Thirty seconds to Warehouse destruction.”

“Coordinates, accepted. Confirm mission?”

“Confirm!” Saying it loudly was all John could do to prevent himself from adding colorful comments to the command.

The LED switched off and the artifact disappeared.

John’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh thank God.” Breathless, he looked for any sign that the sphere had started to dissipate. Nothing.

“Why isn’t it working? And why isn’t the emergency system kicking in?”

“Twenty seconds to Warehouse destruction.”

“Will you shut up?! I’m working on it!” John screamed towards the speaker, his voice sounding odd against the low beat.

He looked down at his weapon and smiled. After all, he was already inside; he didn’t need to throw a ball of energy at it, he could just smash his way out. This might be easier, John told himself as he picked up the mace.

Assuming it works.

Tightening his grip on the handle, John steadied himself and swung like a baseball bat, hitting the surface and cracking it like a hardboiled egg, but that’s all it was, cracked.

“15 seconds to Warehouse destruction.”

Mycroft’s voice was supposed to remind John that the world was about to be destroyed but all he could think about was how little time he had until he ran back to find Sherlock’s lifeless body. He didn’t care how selfish it was for him to be more worried about one person’s life than the entire world; it didn’t change the fact that it was true. John was losing a teammate, _again_. Somehow this time it felt worst. Why should it happen just as they were starting to figure it out, just as it was starting to work between them? They never got a chance to...  Not caring what the consequences were, John shut his eyes and let himself open up to his weapon.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, the artifact spread across every fiber of John’s being, focused on the anger and fanned it, making it burn into rage. Heartbeat accelerated, body temperature higher than average, pupils dilated, John cried out as if he was about to run into battle.

Instinctively, he swung as hard as he could. When the mace came into contact with the sphere it broke as if it were glass. Pieces fell, creating a larger opening then before, though not big enough to compromise the whole structure. But John could see the cracks; it wouldn’t take much more to take it down. Without a moment to lose, he made his way through and ran to the nearest security station, dropped the mace to grab the hose and spray the sphere with neutraliser before it had a chance to regenerate.

“Ten seconds to Warehouse destruction.”

He steadied his stream towards the slowly closing opening and moved back to the station-

“Nine.”

To smash the emergency button, making the sprinklers go off,-

“Eight.”

Burning off like steam as soon as it touched its surface. Slowly the electrical field melted-

“Seven.”

Letting the neutraliser do its job on the surrounding artifacts, restoring the peace in the form of purple rain.

“Six.”

“Come on, it’s working, why are you still counting down!” John looked back, noticing the flashing screen that was asking if he wanted to activate the emergency system in the entire Warehouse.

“Five.”

“This emergency system is the worst!” He criticised as he hit enter.

“Four.”

“Come on.” John looked from the monitor to the sphere.

“Three.”

“Come on!” He screamed at the end of his wits. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what else to do. It shouldn’t end when it felt like it had barely started.

All of a sudden, the alarm and blinking lights stopped, restoring the Warehouse to its standard halogen lights, except for the purple rain surrounding ground zero.

“Crisis averted. Well done, agents.” Mycroft’s recorded voice said smugly.

“Oh fuck you!” John screamed as he dropped the hose and ran back to Sherlock.

Even though he didn’t have the mace anymore, he was reverting to anger as a fuel to keep going, keep running even though his lungs were burning, keep moving even though he knew what he was most likely to find. He had no idea how he was supposed to help him once he got there. His chest tightened at the thought, making his breaths even shorter. He’ll figure it out, somehow. He’s still alive. They’re still alive, John told himself. He was gone less than five minutes, he should be ok.

“Sherlock!” He shouted as he rounded the last corner, practically sliding across the floor as he laid eyes on the unconscious body lying in a large pool of blood. John could feel his heart in his throat, cursing his timing. He kneeled next to his partner and looked for a pulse, happy to find one. A faint one, but a pulse none the less.

“Sherlock-” The name caught in John’s throat. He had to take a breath to get back his calm doctor tone. “Stay with me. I’m right here. Come on Sherlock, wake up.”

He kept mumbling encouragements to his partner as he checked his vitals, his brow furrowed with worry at the sight of his non responding pupils and paler than usual complexion. He shifted his shirt to look at the wound and his heart sank.

Not good. Definitely not good.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was so soft, so feeble, air scraping at his dry vocal chords.

The sight of his partner conscious was a relief as much as it was a concern. “Don’t move. You’ll be fine.” He was saying it as much for Sherlock as for himself as he felt the blood on the floor slowly being soaked up by his trousers. John took out his phone to call an ambulance, but he couldn’t get a signal. That darn blocker. He tried with his Farnsworth, but the only other person he could call was Mycroft. Putting aside his misplaced anger towards the Caretaker, John rang him.

“Did it work?” Sherlock rasped.

John chuckled, unsurprised at his partner’s priorities. “Yes.”

“Good.” Sherlock answered as if they were discussing the weather during afternoon tea. “Knew you could do it.”

“Of all the moments to acknowledge I’m not an idiot, you choose now?” Why wasn’t Mycroft answering?

“I didn’t say you weren’t an idiot, I’m just saying you have a certain set of aptitudes that made the accomplishments of the tasks a sure thing.”

“You never give it a rest, do you?”

“Of what?”

“Being a smartass.” John retorted with a smile.

Sherlock was about to respond when he started coughing, covering his lips with blood and a small drop on his chin.

Forgetting about the ringing Farnsworth, John threw it aside and placed his hand on the back on Sherlock’s head to help with the breathing. “Sherlock, stop talking.”

Once his breathing had calmed, John laid his head back down and closed the unanswered Farnsworth.

He needed to do something _now_.  

“It’s only fitting. The Warehouse killing me.”

Sherlock’s words shook John so strongly that he didn’t even realise what he was saying before it came out. “I told you to shut up. You are not dying here, not while I’m still alive and able to do something about it.”

“John-”

“Stop talking! Keep your strength to-” He was about to say to stay alive, but he just couldn’t say the words, couldn’t bear to hear them because he would not accept any other outcome than keeping this man alive if it’s the last thing he did. “Just... trust me. You’re going to be ok.”

“Joh-”

“No!” John was surprised by the strength of his outburst. He stared at his partner with pleading eyes and spoke softly but there was still an edge in his voice. “We’re surrounded by magical fucking artifacts, I can’t believe there isn’t something here I can use to save you.” He argued, looking around. “I’ll be right back, ok Sherl-?”

John hadn’t noticed Sherlock move until he felt his hand covering his own over his chest. The sensation interrupted John’s words as he looked from their joint hands to Sherlock and stared at him as he felt a soft squeeze. With a shaking breath, John twisted his hand and squeezed back, acknowledging the mirroring of the scene on the bridge. Sherlock eyes smiled softly before closing, his hand going limp in John’s.

“No.” He whispered, his free hand fumbling to find a pulse, his own heartbeat doubling. “No.” John repeated louder, as if he could convince Sherlock to stay awake by shouting at him.

He found a feeble pulse and let out a slow breath through his mouth. Gently, John took his fingers off his neck, brushed the sweat damped hair off Sherlock’s forehead and stood. He looked around them and it was obvious to him that searching through each one was going to take too much time. Time he didn’t have. So he closed his eyes and used his senses. Even though the air wasn’t filled with tangential energy anymore, John could still feel a faint resonance. Nothing as strong as what he had experienced with the mace, but a pull nonetheless.

With a mix of relief, curiosity and worry, John followed its call. Of course he wanted to understand why he of all people could do this sort of thing, but right now it didn’t matter. Right now he was just grateful he had a chance to save Sherlock, no matter how risky it could be.

Frowning, John crouched by the third row on his left and reached for a wooden jewelry box. He didn’t question anything, simply opened it, let his hand search through the jewelry and grab the army dog tags. He passed the familiar chain around his neck and ran back.

“Sherlock, you still with me?” John asked even though he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.

He checked his pulse again before hovering over the wound. It was probably for the best that the man was unconscious, because this was going to be painful. John grabbed the handle of the sabre with both hands and steadily pulled it out of Sherlock’s stomach. A tortured grunt came out of Sherlock, his breathing coming out in short wheezes.

John threw the sword away and took off his shirt to press it onto the wound. Even though the senior agent had reacted to the pain, he was still unconscious. As John leaned forward to increase pressure, the dog tags clinked around his neck. He grabbed them with one hand, expecting something to happen if he did and held them tightly as he kept pressure on the wound.  

“Stop it Sherlock. You have to wake up. You can’t die now, not now, not when- it’s not over yet, you aren’t done, we’re not done, we just started to-”

John choked on his words. He was at the end of his wits. All he had were these army tags and he had no idea how they worked and wasn’t ‘feeling’ anything. What was he doing? This was ridiculous, how could he have blindly put his faith into artifacts like this and expect things to magically get better? Sherlock was right, he was an idiot. He could feel the blood soaking through his shirt, could see the cold sweat across Sherlock’s forehead. He closed his eye and bit the inside of his cheek. It was over; there was nothing else he could do. But _God_ , how he wished he did. How he wished they could get another chance, wished he had a medical kit.

“Please, let him live.”

John Wished he could give him strength, wished the wound would just close up on its own, wished for blood transfusions, wished the pain would disappear, wished to hear his partner wake up with a witty comment.

Because he was Sherlock Holmes, he always had the last word.

“For the record, a sabre to the gut is quite painful. Although not as much as being beaten in a sword fight by a hollow armor.” Sherlock opened one eye at the end of his sentence and smiled when he saw John’s stunned face.

John lifted the blood soaked shirt to look at the wound and saw nothing. No wound, no trace of scarring, only a clear stomach with a red sheen from the blood soaked shirt.

“Sherlock? How-?”

John was too preoccupied by the absence of a scar, passing his hand over his stomach a few times and sliding his other hand under Sherlock to feel his back, to notice his partner’s stunned face.

Sherlock’s pale eyes were fixed on what was dangling from John’s neck. In his years as an agent, doing maintenance and inventory, he had come across a few items that had caught his attention and memorised their files.

This particular artifact had been owned by WWII veteran, John Giltoy. He had been part of The Battle of Bataan that had lasted three months. It was the largest surrender in American and Filipino History. The 90,000 prisoners of war captured by the Japanese were forced marched over a hundred kilometers from Mariveles, on the southern end of Bataan Peninsula, to Camp O’Donnell. Starved, mistreated, often kicked or beaten on their way, those who fell were bayoneted, decreasing their numbers by thousands during the journey. During the march, Giltoy's friend, Roy Schrop, became deathly ill and their captors wanted to leave him for dead. With only 30 kilometers to go, Giltoy helped his friend walk, repeating "You can do this" over and over again, until his wish came true.

This gave the tags the ability to grant wishes, which seemed dull to Sherlock at first, since it was similar to the copper kettle. With further research, he discovered that it didn’t have a downside. It had, however, specific conditions for the wish to be granted: the wish had to be made for someone else, and the user had to love the person for whom they were wishing.

Sherlock had deemed the tags intriguing, but useless since he couldn’t use them. Never would he have guessed that someone would one day try to use them on him and _they would work_.

Granted, some part of him felt joy at the thought of John loving him, but mainly confusion. How could this man develop any kind of affection, let alone feelings as strong as love towards him? What with the restrained colorful vocabulary he uses to describe Sherlock, the emotion comes at somewhat of a surprise. He knew John was attracted to him but hadn’t realised the extent of its meaning.

Although it would shine a new light on John’s general aggressive behavior.

“Sherlock?”

The man blinked and looked up from the dangling tags to John’s face.

“You ok?”

“Where did you get those?”

It took John a moment to answer, still dumbstruck from the sight of a healthy Sherlock. John was also concerned about any side effects given the way his partner was acting. Sherlock staring wasn’t new, neither was ignoring a question, but the deer-in-headlights look definitely was.

Once John’s brain actually processed the question, he was at a loss as to what Sherlock was referring to. “Get what?” Until he remembered the artifact around his neck, forgotten with the familiar feeling of the chain dangling on his chest. “Oh, these? Over there.” He pointed behind them. A full blown adrenaline and endorphin high was clouding John’s brain, or he would have been careful about his choice of words as he turned back to his partner with a smile. “Guess they worked.” He said with a nervous laugh.

Sherlock’s dear-in-headlights look dropped. “You say that like you weren’t sure they would?”

There it was. The same look of panic on John’s face as in the office when he figured out they had to finish the story and when he opened the portal. 

“You did it again, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“The manuscript, the portal, now this. You don’t even know how they work, do you?”

Sherlock had already figured out John had developed a sixth sense for artifacts (not uncommon among agents, though it had been quite a few years since the last one) and even though the senior agent was curious to learn more about the aptitude, his mind was rather focused on the dog tags at the moment.

John started fibbing. “Well, you can never really know with artifacts-”

“Did you or did you not know anything about the tags before using them?” If John really had no idea of how the artifact worked, then there was a possibility that he wasn’t even aware of his feelings.

John swallowed with difficulty. “No.”

“So you somehow found them and used them without having a clue what they do, all this just to save me?” Sherlock insisted, one part of him not quite believing what he was hearing, the other surprised that John had the guts to blindly trust his instincts.

John nodded curtly, unsure where this was headed.

“Bit reckless, even for you.”

John did a double take, surprised Sherlock wasn’t pushing the issue any further. Wasn’t he curious why he used the artifact even though he didn’t know what he was doing?

“How long was I unconscious?” The senior agent asked as he looked at the blood pool around him.

Thanking his luck at the change of subject, John tried to remember the events, but it was causing him to choke up with emotion more than anything else. The fact that they we’re still sitting in Sherlock’s blood wasn’t helping.

“That depends if you’re referring to the first time or the second time...” John cleared his throat and silently continued to check Sherlock’s vital signs.

Mixed with the new information concerning John’s emotional investment in their partnership, Sherlock’s inability to continue the discussion made him highly uncomfortable, which resulted in babbling.

“Right, well, that was your first Warehouse catastrophe, probably won’t be the last.” Sherlock sat up, his mind still whirling as it went through every memory of John he had.

How could he not have noticed?

“That’s it?”

Sherlock looked up, confused by John’s stern tone.

“You’re just good as new?” John considered Sherlock’s health more important than trying to hide his sixth sense. “What do these things do anyway?” John held up the tags in his hand.

Sherlock cursed internally. “Those? I, uh, think they grant wishes.”

“Like the kettle?”

“Not exactly. Sort of.”

As per usual, that was as much of an explanation as John was going to get. He really needed to learn how to use the database. “So what’s the downside?”

There was no way Sherlock was going to answer that.

“Do you think we can still make our flight?” He asked instead.

“Are you kidding me?” John’s voice was incredulous.

Sherlock schooled his features as he stood and prepared himself for the onslaught of questions. “About what specifically?”

“Those coordinates can wait.” John stood as well and pointed his finger at his chest. “You are going to the hospital.”

Sherlock frowned, a bit surprised at the turn of events. “What? Why?”

“You need surgery.”

Something inside Sherlock stirred at the knowledge that his partner was more concerned by his health than the work.

“I’m fine.”

It seemed as if the vein on John’s forehead was going to pop. “You are _not_ fine, you’re being held together by a wish!”

“John-”

“Don’t _John_ me. You are going and that is final.”

Why was that endearing? Sherlock wondered as he took a step closer to John. It shouldn’t be endearing, it’s normal for a doctor to worry about his patients. “We don’t need to go to the hospital because we have everything we need here.”

John snorted incredulously. “What, like the Warehouse has a surgery?”

“Yes, and you can do the operation. After all, it is why Mycroft hired you.”

John did a double take. “You serious?”

“Of course we have an OR. Can you imagine explaining to the hospital staff that I need surgery after you undo your wish? We’d get thrown in the psych ward.”

“I was hired because of my medical history?” John’s tone didn’t have the worried edge from a moment ago.

Sherlock took one quick look at his partner. The anger was evident in his stance, making the taller man answer cautiously since he wasn’t sure what exactly had triggered it. “Well, as much as I hate to admit it, I do tend to end up in sticky situations-”

“So that’s why I’m here? To look after you? Like a fucking _nanny_?”

“That’s not-” Sherlock was taken aback by how the conversation had taken a turn for the worst. John’s medical history was one of the reasons that had convinced Mycroft, shouldn’t that make him proud?

John was angry for letting himself get caught up in the last few days. The reality of their relationship was hitting him harder than he wanted to admit. If that’s all he really was, a simple assistant there to clean up Sherlock’s mess, he didn’t want to be part of this anymore.

Decided, John turned to walk back to the office.

“John-”

“Don’t-”

“Please.”

John paused.

“John, let me explain.”

As angry as he was, John recognised it was the first time Sherlock had used the word please since he had met him. Even though he was starting to realise that the longer he stayed the harder it would be for him to leave, it was also becoming clear that maybe he didn’t really want to leave. As crazy as this all was, he’d never felt so alive.

John was also starting to understand that it had nothing to do with the job.

He turned to face Sherlock, pursed his lips and waited.

Even though John was a few inches taller than him, the force of his glare was making Sherlock feel small, jumbling his thoughts as he struggled to find where to start. It stretched the silence, eating away John’s patience rapidly, which made Sherlock blurt out the first true thing that came to mind.

“I was the one who recommended you to Mycroft. After Qatar. He was surprised I even brought up the subject since I had refused every candidate for years.” Sherlock looked at the floor as he continued. “There are a lot of soldiers out there with your skills in weapons and combat. Very few are also field surgeons. I must admit I had always thought it was fascinating how one can learn to kill as one learns to heal...”

John crossed his arms. “You going anywhere with this?”

Sherlock straightened and held John’s glare even though his insides were in knots. “As you have said many times, I am reckless in the field. I like to show off, even if it means getting hurt. Obviously, Mycroft disapproves, hence the many attempts to find a new partner. He was suspicious when I recommended you, but when he saw your medical background, he couldn’t refuse to look into it.”

John crossed his arms. “You do realise it still sounds like I’m here just to clean up your mess?”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to stomp his feet like a frustrated child before he schooled himself. “I was annoyed that you had followed me after the explosion. And quite honestly, I had originally planned to let you fall into that pit.”

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock quickly continued. “But when I saw you, deduced you, I... I stopped you from falling.” The senior agent paused, unsure how to continue. He hadn’t really tried to understand what had pushed him to save John that day; it was a split second decision. “I have little regard for people in general, even less for soldiers. All so boring, like goldfish as my brother would say. And yet you-” Sherlock shut his eyes, frustrated. Putting words on an irrational behavior like instinct or sentiment was proving difficult.  He kept being distracted by the knowledge that John loved him and it made no sense how it could have happened. As clever as Sherlock was, he couldn’t fathom how his partner could care this much.

John’s soft voice broke the silence. “You could have just asked.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

John’s arms were still crossed, but his shoulders were sagging from fatigue. “In Qatar, or when we got back. If you had wanted me to be your partner so bad, you could have just asked.”

“I... at the time, I didn’t think that was an option.”

John let his head hang, a bit discouraged, but a smile was tugging at his lips. He couldn’t blame Sherlock, seeing what he had said about the man in his many interrogations. But if he had come to him, John probably would have said yes. Well, after a lot of explanations. And proof. But one thing was certain. Once he would have stepped foot in the Warehouse, John would have said yes and ended up exactly where he was now.

“Don’t get me wrong, you were an obnoxious arsehole in Qatar and continue to be to this day.”

“That probably won’t change.”

“You’re unpleasant, rude-”

“Your point?”

John looked to the side, licked his lips. His point was that as insane as his life was at the moment, as crazy as this man made him on a day to day basis, he knew he couldn’t turn his back on life as a warehouse agent anymore. And as much as he hated to admit it, the main reason was standing right in front of him.

“I should give you a physical before we call Mycroft to prep the OR.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as their eyes met. For the most part it was relief that John was choosing to stay, yet something stirred in his stomach at the idea of getting a physical.

He watched Sherlock’s eyes light up and his shy smile spread across his face. John fought the urge to push back his curls and nodded towards the office. Silently, they walked back, their pace a tad slower than usual. Both of them lost in thought, trying not to pay so much attention to their arms brushing against each other every once in a while.

* * *

 

“We can do it when we get back from South Dakota.”

“I will not keep arguing with you about this, you are doing the surgery now and that’s final.”

Sherlock was sitting on the experiment table, his legs hanging off the edge, his blood soaked shirt in a plastic bag behind him. “I could just hide the tags.”

“That’s an even worse idea.” John wrote something on his chart and then proceeded to check Sherlock’s blood pressure. “What if somebody finds them? If I were you I’d keep them around my neck.”

The words unintentionally made Sherlock imagine John with the tags, literally having his life around his neck. He couldn’t name the mix of emotion it gave him, but the whole of it was thrilling.

John continued unaware of his partner’s hesitation as he placed his stethoscope on Sherlock’s brachial artery on the inside of his elbow, pumped air into the cuff and watched the needle jump on the meter. “That’s not the point, you can’t risk the artifact failing at any moment, best we do it under controlled conditions.”

But the only thing Sherlock was focused on was John’s thigh brushing against his own as he stood next to him. He was proceeding with professionalism, his movements steady, clearly repeated thousands of times, but that didn’t stop Sherlock’s body from being hyper aware of every touch. “How much longer is this going to take? I told you, I’m fine.”

John hung the stethoscope around his neck and removed his gloves. He may have taken his time. He liked to be thorough when he could, especially before a surgery, although he may have been a bit enthusiastic about cleaning the blood off Sherlock’s chest and back.

John crossed his arms and looked into his eyes. “Promise me you will listen to what I tell you.”

“Of course.”

“And actually do it.”

“Hm.”

John shook his head. “Just call Mycroft already.”

* * *

 

The Farnsworth rang loudly in the Caretaker’s suit jacket. The sound was breaking the peace of his home office, filled only with the muted sound of London traffic.

“What is it this time?” Mycroft asked as if he were being bothered by a fly.

John grabbed the device out of Sherlock’s hands and spat at the Caretaker. “Why are you answering now and not 20 minutes ago when it was important?!”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the new agent’s outburst. “Did something happen?”

“Are you telling me you don’t even know when the Warehouse is about to implode?”

“And yet here we are.” Mycroft answered with a sly smile.

John sneered at the screen before shoving the Farnsworth back to his partner.

A bit sidetracked from his original intent, Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a look before he got into the matter. “Prep the OR.”

Mycroft’s demure suddenly became less bored. “What happened?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Fine, nothing to worry-”

“You are not fine!” John insisted in the background with a scowl.

Mycroft waited patiently for his brother to roll his eyes.

“I got stabbed in the gut, John used an artifact to keep me alive and now he insists we neutralise it, hence the OR needing to be prepped.” The senior agent did his best to say this as neutrally as possible, but he could still see his brother’s calculating eyes.

“I assume Dr. Watson will be your surgeon.”

Pushing aside his frustrations, John focused on the task. He leaned into Sherlock’s shoulder so Mycroft could see him. “I’m going to need some more hands for this one.”

“Of course. However, for security reasons, you will need to work with a reduced staff.”

“Which means?”

“One.”

John rolled his eyes. “Right. I’m assuming this person is qualified?”

“To deal with my brother? More or less.”

John chuckled before he could stop it, causing Sherlock to hop off the table, almost making John stumble to get out of the way.

“Just get it done.” Sherlock spat before hanging up.

Well, wasn’t this an interesting development, Mycroft thought at he pulled out his mobile phone and looked through his contacts. He waited patiently for the line to pick up and smiled when it did.

“Hello?”

“Good morning Molly, I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I kind of cut short Sherlock's physical, but!  
> (takes moment to breathe)  
> You have to understand that not only is it as difficult for me as it is for you, but the next episode... it's just... it's... Episode 4.  
> Which means STUFF HAPPENS.  
> But because I like to torture myself, I will take the longest way there that I possibly can.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thank you for kudos/comment, they bring me life and the motivation to keep writing this series :D
> 
> For updates on chapter releases and futur fics for this series, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://shamelessmash.tumblr.com/)  
> Edit*** episode 4 is almost finished writing, I just got distracted by writing A Case of Identity - The Musical (sorry not sorry) 
> 
> As always, I'd like to thank the [Warehouse 13 Wiki](http://warehouse13.wikia.com/wiki/Warehouse_13_Wiki)page.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I hope you had as much fun with this one as I did writing it. I am very excited about episode 4 yet terrified because I am doing it completely in Sherlock's POV.  
> Which is why I played so much with the POV's in this one. (Hopes it didn't turn out so bad since it went unbeta'd halfway through)
> 
> Artifacts used/mentioned in this fic (in NO chronological order)  
> *For story purposes, artifact proprieties may differ from the original description*
> 
> [Genghis Kahn's mace](http://warehouse13.wikia.com/wiki/Genghis_Khan's_Mace)  
> Walt Disney's Paintbrush : there is currently no webpage for this artifact other than this description: Walt Disney's Paintbrush: Brushing objects with it causes them to look like they are animated and they occasionally come alive with visual and audio effects reminiscent of 1930-40's cartoons.  
> [link to the episode wiki page](http://warehouse13.wikia.com/wiki/Love_Sick)  
> [W. C. Field's Juggling Balls](http://warehouse13.wikia.com/wiki/W.C._Field%27s_Juggling_Balls)  
> [Anthony Bishop's manuscript](http://warehouse13.wikia.com/wiki/Anthony_Bishop%27s_Manuscript)  
> [Vyasas's Jade Elephant](http://warehouse13.wikia.com/wiki/Vyasa%27s_Jade_Elephant)  
> [Bataan Death March Dogtags](http://warehouse13.wikia.com/wiki/Bataan_Death_March_Dogtags)  
>   
> Artifacts not from the original series  
> (because I try my best to stay with the original series artifacts but, you know...)
> 
> Genghis Khan's Armor  
> Genghis Khan's Sabre


End file.
